IN PRAISE OF STEVENSON 



VINCENT STARRETT 




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Book A <? 9~> %. 
Copyright N?. 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSm 



The Bookfellow Series 
Volume One 



In Praise of Stevenson 



In Praise of Stevenson 

An Anthology 



Edited, with an Introduction 
and Notes, by 

Vincent Starrett 




CHICAGO 

THE BOOKFELLOWS 

1919 



Three hundred twenty -five copies of this first edition have been printed 
from type m November, 1919, of which three hundred copies are for 
sale to BooTcfellows 






Copy right 1919 by 
Flora Warren Seymour 



DEC 1 1 1919 



THE TORCH PRESS 

CEDAR RAPIDS 

IOWA 



©CI.A53599I 






To 

Walter M. Hill 

A Prince of Bookfellows 



CONTENTS 

Introduction 13 

Over the Sea to Skye 16 

Apparition 19 

William Ernest Henley 
"Kidnapped" 20 

Punch 
To Robert Louis Stevenson 21 

Robert Burns Wilson 
To Robert Louis Stevenson on His First Visit to 

America 22 

James Whitcomb Riley 
To R. L. S 23 

Willam Ernest Henley 
Stevenson's "Underwoods" 24 

Edith M. Thomas 
Derelict 25 

Young E. Allison 
A Ballad of John Silver 28 

John Masefield 
To Prospero in Samoa 30 

Y. Y. 
To Robert Louis Stevenson 31 

Andrew Lang 
Ballant o' Ballantrae 33 

Andrew Lang 
Written in a Copy of Mr. Stevenson's "Catriona" 35 

William Watson 

7 



To Tusitala IN Vailima 36 

Edmund Gosse 
Greeting 39 

F. J. Cox 
R. L. S 41 

A. E. Housman 
Robert Louis Stevenson 42 

John Davidson 
Robert Louis Stevenson 43 

Richard Garnett 
Robert Louis Stevenson: An Elegy ... 44 

Richard Le Gallienne 
Scotland's Lament 49 

James Matthew Barrie 
Home From the Hill 52 

W. Robertson Nicoll 
I. M., R. L. S 54 

"William Ernest Henley 
R. L. S., In Memoriam 55 

A. C. R. 
Valediction 56 

Louise Imogen Guiney 
For R. L. S. on Vaea Top 57 

Louise Imogen Guiney 
In Memorlvm Stevenson 60 

Owen Wister 
To Robert Louis Stevenson 61 

Bruce Porter 
A Grave in Samoa 62 

J. Macfarlane 
To Robert Louis Stevenson 63 

Herman Knickerbocker Viele 
A Samoan Lament 65 

Native 



A Seamaek 66 

Bliss Carman 
On Being Asked for a Song 72 

Richard Watson Gilder 
In Memoriam, R. L. Stevenson 73 

Margaret Armour 
At the Road House : In Memory of Robert Louis 

Stevenson 75 

Bliss Carman 
Robert Louis Stevenson 77 

Frederic Smith 
On a Youthful Portrait of Robert Louis Stevenson 78 

James Whitcomb Riley 
The Word of the Water 79 

Bliss Carman 
The Last Portrait in Stevenson's Gallery . . 80 

St. James Gazette 
The Robert Louis Stevenson Memorial in Ports- 
mouth Square 81 

Fred Warner Carpenter 
Robert Louis Stevenson 82 

Emma Carleton 
Inscription 83 

Selected 
Stevenson of the Letters 84 

B. Paul Neuman 
"Tusitala" 85 

P. T. M. 

To Stevenson 86 

Grace W. Hazard 

A Toast to Tusitala 87 

Bliss Carman 

To Robert Louis Stevenson 88 

Richard Burton 



Stevenson's Birthday 

Katherine Miller 
R. L. S., In Memoriam 

Austin Dobson 
R. L. Stevenson . 

C. P. Nettleton 
Stevenson-Nicholson 

C. de Fornaro 
At the Stevenson Fountain 

Wallace Irwin 
To R. L. S 

Charles W. Collins 
To R. L. S 

Alfred Austin 
The Burial of Robert Louis Stevenson at Samoa 

Florence Earle Coates 
On a Portrait of "R. L. S." the Invalid 

Arthur Stringer 
To Stevenson .... 

Charles Keeler 
Tusitala: Teller of Tales 

Mary H. Krout 
Stevenson 

George Edgar Montgomery 
R. L. S 



Arthur Johnstone 
Robert Louis Stevenson . 

Lizette Woodworth Reese 
Thought of Stevenson 

Arthur Upson 
Legend of Portsmouth Square . 

W. 0. McGeeham 
Toasts in a Library . 

Anonymous 



89 

90 

91 

92 

93 

94 

95 

96 

97 

98 

99 

100 

101 

102 

103 

104 

106 



10 



R. L. S 107 

Edmund Gosse 
Paraphrase 108 

Frederic Smith 
R, L. S 109 

Frederic Smith 
1 'Treasure Island" 110 

Bert Leston Taylor 
Treasure Island Ill 

Patrick Chalmers 
The Old Vaquero Remembers Robert Louis Ste- 
venson 112 

Reginald Rogers 
At the Robert Louis Stevenson Fountain . . 113 

John Northern Hilliard 
Long John Silver 115 

Vincent Starrett 
To R. L. S 116 

R. R. Greenwood 
Robert Louis Stevenson 117 

Ethel Talbot Scheffauer 
To Robert Louis Stevenson 118 

Edwin Carlile Litsey 
Friend o' Mine 119 

Stephen Chalmers 
The Death of Flint 121 

Stephen Chalmers 
Robert Louis Stevenson 123 

Stephen Chalmers 
Saint R. L. S 124 

Sarah N. Cleghorn 
On Certain Critics of Stevenson .... 125 

Vincent Starrett 
Samoa and R. L. S 126 

Jesse Edgar Middleton 

11 



The Travellers . 127 

Michael Monahan 
A House in Saranac 128 

George Steele Seymour 
The Passing of Louis 130 

Vincent Starrett 
Adventuring with R. L. S. 132 

Ethel Feuerlicht 

Acknowledgments 133 

Notes 135 



12 



INTRODUCTION 

R. L. S. . . " These familiar initials are, I suppose, the 
best beloved in recent literature, ' ' wrote J. M. Barrie, in Mar- 
garet Ogilvy ; ' ' certainly they are the sweetest to me. ' ' 

To this tribute, an overwhelming chorus has answered, 
"And to me!" 

Indeed, in the long line of immortals, few have been ren- 
dered such universal and sincere homage as the lean Scots- 
man, whose courage no less than his genius has endeared him 
to all who love a brave tale and a brave man. But even 
genius which compels admiration seldom enough inspires love ; 
and that Stevenson was — and is — loved, is beyond all dis- 
pute. The phenomenon, then, is born of the man himself, 
and the romantic colours of his life. His long quest after 
health, his unfailing cheerfulness and courage, his early and 
tragic death, and his remote yet triumphant tomb on Vaea 
top, fire the imagination like one of his own tales. His stories 
obviously are the man. Given health and strength, the in- 
vincible invalid would have lived them ; failing that, he wrote 
them down in words of inimitable wonder. 

An enormous literature has grown up around the name and 
fame of Louis Stevenson. Of late, there has been a critical 
tendency toward the apostate mood of Henley, on a famous 
occasion, but we may fairly suppose it to mark the inevitable 
reaction after years of tumultuous and not always judicious 
adulation. Henley's memorable article has done more good 
than harm, for, as Mr. J. A. Hammerton remarks, "it is salu- 
tary to remember that Stevenson was a little lower than the 
angels. ' ' The time certainly has come, however, when it may 

13 



be asserted that he was one of the best story-tellers who have 
written in our language. To his high narrative and dramatic 
faculty, he joined qualities of humour, insight, sympathy and 
style, rare among English story-writers of whatever rank. 
But the superficial judgment which sets him down as a story- 
teller is as narrow as that which would make of him merely a 
stylist, or that which finds his finest performance in his essays. 
I think no one as yet has ventured to remark that his genius 
reached its zenith in his poetry, graceful and delightful and 
poignant as much of it is, although it would be no surprise to 
learn that this, too, had been claimed for him. The truth is, 
he handled supremely well so wide a range of literary forms, 
that the commentator who blandly seeks to bestow the critical 
accolade on a single count only succeeds in making himself 
ridiculous. The proverbial pendulum still oscillates gently; 
when it shall have ceased to swing, Stevenson, I believe, will 
be found to occupy a loftier place than many critics now are 
willing to accord him, if somewhat lower than that forced 
upon him by unbridled enthusiasts. And, as now, with the 
uncritical many, who care not a jot one way or the other, he 
will still be Louis, the Beloved, "Tusitala, the Teller of 
Tales. ' ' Happy all who share this reckless enthusiasm ! 

Some notion of Stevenson's wide popularity, if additional 
evidence be necessary, is obtained from the number and the 
passion of tributes to him, both in his lifetime and since his 
death. Naturally, there are more of the latter than of the 
former. In the present compilation, I have attempted to col- 
lect in one set of covers, all the better known tributes in verse, 
and such other verses composed in his honour or around his 
fame as became accessible by diligent research ; together with 
poems inspired by his writings, and other material that might 
fairly be included in this, I believe, the first anthology of the 
subject. The poems thus brought together are not of uniform 
excellence, but I venture to assert that in sympathy and sin- 
cerity the slightest is unsurpassed by the finest. 

14 f- 



It has been interesting to note how Stevenson's philosophy 
of life has impressed and inspired many of the poets ; notably 
that admirable doctrine, ' ' To travel hopefully is a better thing 
than to arrive." And it has been keenly moving to realize 
how many, with the poet's vision, have seen (as how could 
they fail to see?) in certain of his own poems — so appall- 
ingly clairvoyant, it seems, now that he is dead — the tragedy 
and triumph of his life, and have felt the often whimsical 
resignation of the man in the face of Doom. His most fan- 
tastic thoughts were written, as it were, while Death stood 
behind the chair and chuckled. It is obvious, indeed, that 
life was for him the curious and grotesque spectacle he often 
made it, for the very reason that he viewed the merry-go-round 
from an invalid's chair. 

The arrangement of poems is as nearly chronological as is 
possible from information at hand ; and the labour of collect- 
ing, comparing and authenticating has been very truly a 
labour of love. While I have added yet another volume to the 
already considerable number which catalogue as Stevenson- 
iana, I feel that no apology need be made for one more, so 
little of which is my own, so much of which is Stevenson's. 

Vincent Starrett 



15 



OVER THE SEA TO SKYE 

Sing me a song of a lad that is gone, 

Say, could that lad he If 
Merry of soul he sailed on a day 

Over the sea to Skye. 

Mull was astern, Egg on the port, 

Bum on the starboard bow; 
Glory of youth glowed in his soul: 

Where is that glory nowf 

Sing me a song of a lad that is gone, 

Say, could that lad be I? 
Merry of soul he sailed on a day 

Over the sea to Skye. 

Give me again all that was there, 

Give me the sun that shone! 
Give me the eyes, give me the soul, 

Give me the lad that's gone! 

Sing me a song of a lad that is gone, 

Say, could that lad be I? 
Merry of soul he sailed on a day 

Over the sea to Skye. 

Billow and breeze, islands and seas, 

Mountains of rain and sun, 
All that was good, all that was fair, 

All that was me is gone. 

— Eobert Louis Stevenson 

Prom Poems and Ballads; copyright, 1895, 1913, by Charles Scribner's Sons. By 
permission of the publishers. 



16 



IN PRAISE OF STEVENSON 



APPARITION 

Thin-legged, thin-chested, slight unspeakably, 

Neat-footed and weak-fingered : in his face — 

Lean, large-boned, curved of beak, and touched with race. 

Bold-lipped, rich-tinted, mutable as the sea, 

The brown eyes radiant with vivacity — 

There shines a brilliant and romantic grace, 

A spirit intense and rare, with trace on trace 

Of passion, impudence and energy. 

Valiant in velvet, light in ragged luck, 
Most vain, most generous, sternly critical, 
Buffoon and poet, lover and sensualist : 
A deal of Ariel, just a streak of Puck, 
Much Antony, of Hamlet most of all, 
And something of the Shorter-Catechist. 

— William Ernest Henley 



19 



" KIDNAPPED' ' 

A graphic story here you 11 find by R. L. Stevenson. 

It beats the Treasure Island — or any he has done ! 

From opening unto finish your attention 's kept alive — 

The scene is laid in Scotland just after 'Forty-five — 

'Tis a tale of wild adventure most marvelously told, 

And cunningly the writer does his clever plot unfold : 

Throughout the narrative we find the author at his best, 

'Tis full of fights and bustle and of thrilling interest ; 

The characters are drawn, you'll find, with most consummate 

skill — 
A book you ought at once to read, and read at once you will ! 



20 



TO ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 

Because the way is long, and we may never 

Meet face to face this side the shadowed land ; 
Because — a thousand things ! — because the hand 
May seek in friendly, but in vain, endeavour 
Some dreamed-of clasp ; because, though seas may sever 
This kindred-seeking dust, there is no strand 
Too far for loving thoughts — spread wave or sand, 
For evermore, thought scorneth them for ever : — 
Therefore lest fate hold by her barrier still, 
No kindlier proving, hence, than in the past — 
Lest on that unknown bourn there is no meeting, — 
For thee, upon the tide of good and ill 
Which floods with ceaseless flow this world, I cast 

This waif : for thee, brave heart, my soul's best greeting. 

— Robert Burns Wilson 



21 



TO ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 

ON HIS FIRST VISIT TO AMERICA 

Robert Louis Stevenson! 
Blue the lift and braw the dawn 
O' yer comin' here amang 
Strangers wha hae luved ye lang ! 
Strangers tae ye we maun be, 
Yet tae us ye 're kenned a wee 
By the writin's ye hae done, 
Robert Louis Stevenson. 

Syne ye've pit yer pen tae sic' 
Tales it stabbt us tae the quick — 
Whiles o' tropic isles an' seas 
An ' o ' gowden treesuries — 
Tales o ' deid men 's banes ; an ' tales 
Swete as sangs o' nightingales 
When the nune o' mirk's begun — 
Robert Louis Stevenson. 

Sae we hail thee ! nane the less 
For the "burr" that ye caress 
Wi' yer denty tongue o' Scots, 
Makin' words forget-me-nots 
' yer bonnie braes that were 
Sung o' Burns the Poemer — 
And that later lavrock, one 
Robert Louis Stevenson. 

— James Whitcomb Riley 



22 



TO R. L. S. 

A Child, 

Curious and innocent, 

Slips from his Nurse, and rejoicing 

Loses himself in the Fair. 

Thro ' the jostle and din 
Wandering, he revels, 
Dreaming, desiring, possessing; 
Till, of a sudden 
Tired and afraid, he beholds 
The sordid assemblage 
Just as it is ; and he runs 
With a sob to his Nurse 
(Lighting at last on him), 
And in her motherly bosom 
Cries him to sleep. 

Thus thro' the World, 

Seeing and feeling and knowing, 

Goes Man: till at last, 

Tired of experience, he turns 

To the friendly and comforting breast 

Of the old nurse, Death. 

— William Ernest Henley 



23 



STEVENSON'S "UNDERWOODS" 

"How do I like 'Underwoods' !" 
As I like all piquant foods, — 
Drupe and kernel, flavors, scents, 
Thorny thick and brake dispense ; 
Scarlet haws and cherries black ; 
Ground-nuts that of earth do smack; 
Sweet-birch browsings, sassafras; 
Strawberries in the sleekest grass ; 
Sippings from the clover's horn, 
On a luscious dew-drowned morn ; 
May-apples with jellied core, 
And the oaks' wild honey store. 

How do I like "Underwoods"? 
As I like the flickering moods 
Sun and wind at evening rouse 
Elfishly among the boughs ; 
Greening showers in fitful drops, 
Thrushes singing in the stops ; 
Stars in day-time, spirit-keen, 
Up a glade 's sky- window seen ; 
Lonesome forest sounds unkenned, 
That would Grief or Fancy friend, 
Straying through the solitudes, — 
Thus do I like "Underwoods"! 

— Edith M. Thomas 



24 



DERELICT 



Fifteen men on the dead man 's chest — 

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! 
Drmk and the devil had done for the rest — 

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! 

(Cap'n Billy Bones his song) 

Fifteen men on the dead man's chest — 

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum ! 
Drink and the devil had done for the rest — 

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! 
The mate was fixed by the bos 'n 's pike, 
The bos'n brained with a marlinspike, 
And Cookey's throat was marked belike 
It had been gripped 

By fingers ten ; 
And there they lay, 
All good dead men, 
Like break-o '-day in a boozing-ken — 
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum ! 

Fifteen men of a whole ship's list — 

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! 
All of 'em down from the devil's own fist — 

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum ! 
The skipper lay with his nob in gore 
Where the scullion's axe his cheek had shore - 
And the scullion he was stabbed times four. 
And there they lay, 

And the soggy skies 
Dripped all day long 
In up-staring eyes — 
At murk sunset and at foul sunrise — 
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum ! 



25 



Fifteen men of 'em stiff and stark — 

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! 
Ten of the crew had the murder mark — 

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum ! 
'Twas a cutlass swipe, or an ounce of lead, 
Or a yawing hole in a battered head, 
And the scuppers glut with a rotting red. 
And there they lay — 

Aye, damn my eyes ! — 
All lookouts clapped 
On paradise — 
All souls bound just contrariwise — 
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum ! 

Fifteen men of 'em good and true — 

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum ! 
Every man jack could ha' sailed with Old Pew - 

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum ! 
There was chest on chest full of Spanish gold, 
With a ton of plate in the middle hold, 
And the cabins riot of stuff untold. 
And they lay there 

That had took the plum, 
With sightless glare 

And their lips struck dumb, 
While we shared all by the rule of thumb — 
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum ! 

More was seen through the sternlight screen — 

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! 
Charting s ondoubt where a woman had been — 

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! 
A flimsy shift on a bunker cot, 
With a thin dirk slot through the bosom spot 



And the lace stiff -dry in a purplish blot. 
Or was she wench . . . 

Or some shuddering maid . . ? 
That dared the knife 

And that took the Made! 
By God! She was stuff for a plucky jade — 
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! 

Fifteen men on the dead man's chest — 

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum ! 
Drink and the devil had done for the rest — 

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum ! 
We wrapped 'em all in a mains '1 tight, 
With twice ten turns of the hawser's bight, 
And we heaved 'em over and out of sight — 
With a yo-heave-ho! 

And a f are-you-well ! 
And a sullen plunge 
In the sullen swell — 
Ten fathoms deep on the road to hell — 
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum ! 

— Young E. Allison 



27 



A BALLAD OF JOHN SILVER 

We were schooner-rigged and rakish, with a long and lissome 

hull, 
And we flew the pretty colours of the cross-bones and the skull ; 
We 'd a big black Jolly Roger flapping grimly at the fore, 
And we sailed the Spanish Water in the happy days of yore. 

We'd a long brass gun amidships, like a well-conducted ship, 
We had each a brace of pistols and a cutlass at the hip ; 
It 's a point which tells against us, and a fact to be deplored, 
But we chased the goodly merchant-men and laid their ships 
aboard. 

Then the dead men fouled the scuppers and the wounded filled 

the chains, 
And the paint- work all was spattered with other people's 

brains, 
She was boarded, she was looted, she was scuttled till she sank, 
And the pale survivors left us by the medium of the plank. 

! then it was (while standing by the taffrail on the poop) 
We could hear the drowning folk lament the absent chicken- 
coop; 
Then, having washed the blood away, we'd little else to do 
Than dance a quiet hornpipe as the old salts taught us to. 

! the fiddle on the fo'c's'le, and the slapping naked soles, 
And the genial ' ' Down the middle, Jake, and curtsey when she 

rolls!" 
With the silver seas around us and the pale moon overhead, 
And the lookout not a-looking and his pipe-bowl glowing red. 



28 



Ah ! the pig-tailed, quidding pirates and the pretty pranks we 

played, 
All have since been put a stop-to by the naughty Board of 

Trade ; 
The schooners and the merry crews are laid away to rest, 
A little south the sunset in the Islands of the Blest. 

— John Masefield 



29 



TO PROSPERO IN SAMOA 

A world away in dreams we roam — 
The tempest howls, the lightnings fall ; 

Slim rainbows span the leaping foam 
That shatters on your fortress wall ; 

Yet forth to shipwreck would we go 

To be the guests of Prospero : 

To join your court where glints the blue 
Through frets of lank banana fans — 

Mirandas, but of warmer hue, 
And other, lazier Calibans, 

And beaded Ariel-eyes that glow 

To list the tale of Prospero. 

They stoop from sultry southern stars, 
They rise from yonder Peaceful Sea, 

The sprites you bind in mystic bars 
On Fancy's page, your thralls, as we. 

A dream ! — we wake, and falling snow 

Hides Treasure Isle and Prospero. 

Then flash us tidings of your weal ! 

Bid Ariel tread the ocean floor, 
And fire-fed dragons, ribbed with steel, 

Rush treasure-freighted to- our shore 
With tales of mingled mirth and woe, 
The magic scroll of Prospero ! 

— Y.Y. 



30 



TO ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 

With KirTc's "Secret Commonwealth' 1 

Louis ! you that like them maist, 

Ye 're far frae kelpie, wraith, and ghaist, 

And fairy dames, no unco chaste, 

And haunted cell. 
Among a heathen clan ye 're placed, 

That kensna hell ! 

Ye hae nae heather, peat, nor birks, 
Nae trout in a' yer burnies lurks, 
There are nae bonny U. P. kirks, 

An awfu' place! 
Nane kens the Covenant o ' Works 

Frae that o' Grace. 

But whiles, maybe, to them ye '11 read 

Blads o ' the Covenanting creed, 

And while their pagan wames ye '11 feed 

On halesome parritch; 
And syne ye '11 gar them learn a screed 

' the Shorter Carritch. 

Yet thae uncovenanted shavers 

Hae rowth, ye say, o ' clash and clavers 

O' gods and etins — auld wives' havers, 

But their delight ; 
The voice o ' him that tells them quavers 

Just wi' fair fright. 

And ye might tell, ayont the faem, 
Thae Hieland clashes o' our hame 
To speak the truth, I takna shame 



31 



To half believe them ; 
And, stamped wi' Tusitala's name, 
They '11 a ' receive them. 

And folk to come ayont the sea 
May hear the yowl o' the Banshie, 
And frae the water-kelpie flee, 

Ere a' things cease, — 
And island bairns may stolen be 

By the Folk o' Peace. 

— Andrew Lang 



32 



BALLANT 0' BALLANTRAE 

TO ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 

Written in wet weather, this conveyed to the Master of Ballantrae a 
wrong idea of a very beautiful and charmmg place, with links, a river 
celebrated by Burns, good sea-fishing, and, on the river, a ruined castle 
at every turn of the stream. "Try Ballantrae" is a word of wisdom. 

Whan suthern wunds gar spindrift flee 
Abune the clachan, faddums hie, 
Whan for the cluds I canna see 

The bonny lift, 
I'd fain indite an Ode to thee 

Had I the gift! 

Ken ye the coast o ' wastland Ayr ? 
Oh mon, it's unco bleak and bare ! 
Ye daunder here, ye daunder there, 

And mak' your moan, 
They've rain and wund eneuch to tear 

The suthern cone ! 

Ye 're seekin ' sport ! There 's nane ava ', 
Yell sit and glower ahint the wa' 
At bleesin' breakers till ye staw, 

If that 's yer wush ; 
' ' There 's aye the Stinchar. ' ' Hoot awa ', 

She wunna fush ! 

She wunna fush at ony gait, 

She's roarin' reid in wrathfu' spate ; 

Maist like yer Kimmer when ye 're late 

Frae Girvan Fair ! 
Forbye to speer for leave I 'm blate 

For fushin' there! 

33 



O Louis, you that writes in Scots, 
Ye 're far awa' frae stirks and stots, 
Wi' drookit hurdies, tails in knots, 

An unco way ! 
My mirth's like thorns aneth the pots 

In Ballantrae ! 

— Andrew Lang 



34 



WRITTEN IN A COPY OP MR. STEVENSON'S 
CATRIONA 

Glorious Sir "Walter, Shakespeare 's brother brain, 
Fortune's invincible victor- victim, Scott, 
Mere lettered fame, 'tis said, esteeming not, 

Save as it ministered to weightier gain, 

Had yet his roseate dream, though dreamed in vain ; 
The dream that, crowning his terrestrial lot, 
A race of great and splendid heirs, begot 

Of his own loins, o 'er Abbotsf ord should reign. 

Fate spurned his wish, but promised, in amends, 
One mighty scion of his heart and mind : 

And where far isles the languid ocean fleck, — 
Flying the cold kiss of our northern wind, — 
Lo, the rare spirit through whom we hail as friends 
The immortal Highland maid and Alan Breck ! 
— William Watson 



35 



TO TUSITALA IN VAILIMA 



Clearest voice in Britain's chorus, 

Tusitala ! 
Years ago, years four-and-twenty, 
Grey and cloudland drifted o 'er us, 
When these ears first heard you talking, 
When these eyes first saw you smiling. 
Years of famine, years of plenty, 
Years of beckoning and beguiling, 
Years of yielding, shifting, baulking, — 
When the good ship "Clansman" bore us 
Round the spits of Tobermory, 
Glens of Voulin like a vision, 
Crags of Knoidart, huge and hoary, — 
We had laughed in light derision, 
Had they told us, told the daring 

Tusitala, 
What the years' pale hands were bearing,— 
Years in stately dim division. 

II 

Now the skies are pure above you, 

Tusitala ; 
Feather 'd trees bow down to love you; 
Perfum'd winds from shining waters 
Stir the sanguine-leav 'd hibiscus 
That your kingdom 's dusk-ey 'd daughters 
Weave about their shining tresses ; 
Dew-fed guavas drop their viscous 
Honey at the sun's caresses, 
Where eternal summer blesses 
Your ethereal musky highlands ; — 

36 



All ! but does your heart remember, 

Tusitala, 
"Westward in our Scotch September, 
Blue against the pale sun's ember, — 
That low rim of faint long islands, 
Barren, granite-snouted nesses, 
Plunging in the dull'd Atlantic, 
Where beyond Tiree one guesses 
At the full tide, loud and frantic ? 



Ill 



By strange pathways God hath brought you, 

Tusitala, 
In strange webs of fortune caught you, 
Led you by strange moods and measures 
To this paradise of pleasures ! 
And the body-guard that sought you 
To conduct you home to glory, — 
Dark the oriflammes they carried, 
In the mist their cohort tarried, — 
They were Languor, Pain, and Sorrow, 

Tusitala! 
Scarcely we endured their story 
Trailing on from morn to morrow, 
Such the devious roads they led you, 
Such the error, such the vastness, 
Such the cloud that overspread you, 
Under the exile bow'd and banish 'd, 
Lost, like Moses in the fastness, 
Till we almost deem'd you vanished. 



37 



IV 

Vanish 'd ! Ay, that 's still the trouble, 

Tusitala. 

Though your tropic isle rejoices, 

"lis to us an Isle of Voices 

Hollow like the elfin double 

Cry of disembodied echoes, 

Or an owlet 's wicked laughter, 

Or the cold and horned gecko's 

Croaking from a ruined rafter, — 

Voices these of things existing, 

Yet incessantly resisting 

Eyes and hands that follow after ; 

You are circled, as by magic, 

In a surf -built palmy bubble, 

Tusitala ; 

Fate hath chosen, but the choice is 

Half delectable, half tragic, 

For we hear you speak, like Moses, 

And we greet you back, enchanted, 

But reply's no sooner granted, 

Than the rifted cloudland closes. 

— Edmund Gosse 



38 



GREETING 

(TO ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON, IN SAMOA) 

We, pent in cities, prisoned in the mart, 

Can know you only as a man apart, 

But ever-present through your matchless art. 

You have exchanged the old, familiar ways 

For isles, where, through the range of splendid days, 

Her treasure Nature lavishly displays. 

There, by the gracious sweep of ampler seas, 
That swell responsive to the odorous breeze, 
You have the wine of Life, and we the lees ! 

You mark, perchance, within your island bowers, 

The slow departure of the languorous hours, 

And breathe the sweetness of the strange wild-flowers, 

And everything your soul and sense delights — 
But in the solemn wonder of your nights, 
When Peace her message on the landscape writes ; 

When Ocean scarcely flecks her marge with foam — 
Your thoughts must sometimes from your island roam, 
To centre on the sober face of Home. 

Though many a league of water rolls between 

The simple beauty of an English scene, 

From all these wilder charms your love may wean. 

Some kindly sprite may bring you as a boon 
Sweets from the rose that crowns imperial June^ 
Or reminiscence of the throstle 's tune ; 

39 



Yea, gladly grant you, with a generous hand, 
Far glimpses of the winding, wind-swept strand, 
The glens and mountains of your native land, 

Until you hear the pipes upon the breeze — 

But wake unto the wild realities, 

The tangled forests and the boundless seas ! 

For lo ! the moonless night has passed away, 

A sudden dawn dispels the shadows grey, 

The glad sea moves and hails the quickening day. 

New life within the arbours of your fief 
Awakes the blossom, quivers in the leaf, 
And splendour flames upon the coral reef. 

If such a prospect stimulate your art, 

More than our meadows where the shadows dart, 

More than the life which throbs in London 's heart, 

Then stay, encircled by your Southern bowers, 
And weave, amid the incense of the flowers, 
The skein of fair romance — the gain is ours ! 

— F. J. Cox 



40 



R. L. S. 

Home is the sailor, home from sea : 
Her far-borne canvas furled, 

The ship pours shining on the quay 
The plunder of the world. 

Home is the hunter from the hill : 
Fast in the boundless snare 

All flesh lies taken at his will 
And every fowl of air. 

'Tis evening on the moorland free, 

The starlit wave is still : 
Home is the sailor from the sea, 

The hunter from the hill. 

— A. E. Housman 



41 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 

Why need we mourn his loss? 

His name is with the great ; 
Close to the Southern Cross 

He sleeps in matchless state. 

Softly the stars shall shower 

Their dewy brilliancies ; 
And many a Southern flower 

Shall climb his grave to kiss. 

Far down the murmuring river 
Shall join the murmuring surge ; 

The haunted winds for ever 
Shall chant his mountain-dirge. 

In darkness and in light, 
Until the Crack of Doom, 

The morning and the night 
Shall watch about his tomb. 

High over field and fountain, 

Far in a place apart, 
He sleeps on Pala Mountain : 

He lives in every heart. 

— John Davidson 



42 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 

Wondrous as though a star with twofold light 
Should fill her lamp for either hemisphere, 
Piercing cold skies with scintillation clear 

While glowing on the sultry Southern night, 

Was miracle of him who could unite 

Pine and the purple harbour of the deer 
With palm-plumed islets that sequestered hear 

The far-off wave their zoning coral smite. 

Still roars the surf, still bounds the herd, but where 
Is one to hear, and see, and tell again ? 

As dancers pause on an arrested air 

Stand the fleet creatures of his fruitful brain 

In shade and sadness, dumb as the despair 
Of Britain mourning for her bard in vain. 

— Richard Garnett 



43 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 

AN ELEGY 

High on his Patmos of the Southern Seas 

Our northern dreamer sleeps, 

Strange stars above him, and above his grave 

Strange leaves and wings their tropic splendours wave, 

"While, far beneath, mile after shimmering mile, 

The great Pacific, with its faery deeps, 

Smiles all day long its silken secret smile. 

Son of a race nomadic, finding still 

Its home in regions furthest from its home, 

Ranging untired the borders of the world, 

And resting but to roam ; 

Loved of his land, and making all his boast 

The birthright of the blood from which he came, 

Heir to those lights that guard the Scottish coast, 

And caring only for a filial fame ; 

Proud, if a poet, he was Scotsman most, 

And bore a Scottish name. 

Death, that long sought our poet, finds at last, 
Death, that pursued him over land and sea: 
Not his the flight of fear, the heart aghast 
With stony dread of immortality, 
He fled ''not cowardly"; 
Fled, as some captain, in whose shaping hand 
Lies the momentous fortunes of his land, 
Sheds not vainglorious blood upon the field, 
But dares to fly — yea ! even dares to yield. 
Death ! why at last he finds his treasure isle, 
And he the pirate of its hidden hoard ; 
Life ! 'twas the ship he sailed to seek it in, 

• 44 



And Death is but the pilot come aboard. 
Methinks I see him smile a boy 's glad smile 
On maddened winds and waters, reefs unknown, 
As thunders in the sail the dread typhoon, 
And in the surf the shuddering timbers groan ; 
Horror ahead, and Death beside the wheel : 
Then — spreading stillness of the broad lagoon, 
And lap of waters round the resting keel. 

Strange Isle of Voices ! must we ask in vain, 

In vain beseech and win no answering word, 

Save mocking echoes of our lonely pain 

From lonely hill and bird ? 

Island beneath whose unrelenting coast, 

As though it never in the sun had been, 

The whole world's treasure lieth sunk and lost, 

Unsunned, unseen. 

For, either sunk beyond the diver's skill, 

There, fathoms deep, our gold is all arust, 

Or in that island it is hoarded still. 

Yea, some have said, within thy dreadful wall 

There is a folk that know not death at all, 

The loved we lost, the lost we love, are there. 

"Will no kind voice make answer to our cry, 

Give to our aching hearts some little trust, 

Show how 'tis good to live, but best to die ? 

Some voice that knows 

"Whither the dead man goes: 

We hear his music from the other side, 

Maybe a little tapping on the door, 

A something called, a something sighed — 

No more. 

for some voice to valiantly declare 

The best news true ! 

Then, Happy Island of the Happy Dead, 

45 



How gladly would we spread 
Impatient sails for you ! 

O vanished loveliness of flowers and faces, 

Treasure of hair, and great immortal eyes, 

Are there for these no safe and secret places ? 

And is it true that beauty never dies f 

Soldiers and saints, haughty and lovely names, 

Women who set the whole wide world in flames, 

Poets who sang their passion to the skies, 

And lovers wild and wise : 

Fought they and prayed for some poor flitting gleam, 

Was all they loved and worshipped but a dream ? 

Is Love a lie and fame indeed a breath, 

And is there no sure thing in life — but death ? 

Or may it be, within that guarded shore, 

He meets Her now whom I shall meet no more 

Till kind Death fold me 'neath his shadowy wing : 

She whom within my heart I softly tell 

That he is dead whom once we loved so well, 

He, the immortal master whom I sing. 

Immortal ! Yea, dare we the word again , 

If aught remaineth of our mortal day, 

That which is written — shall it not remain ? 

That which is sung, is it not built for aye ? 

Faces must fade, for all their golden looks, 

Unless some poet them eternalize, 

Make live those golden looks in golden books ; 

Death, soon or late, will quench the brightest eyes — 

'Tis only what is written never dies. 

Yea, memories that guard like sacred gold 

Some sainted face, they also must grow old, 

Pass and forget, and think — or darest thou not ! — 

On all the beauty that is quite forgot. 

46 



Strange craft of words, strange magic of the pen, 

Whereby the dead still talk with living men ; 

Whereby a sentence, in its trivial scope, 

May centre all we love and all we hope ; 

And in a couplet, like a rosebud furled, 

Lie all the wistful wonder of the world. 

Old are the stars, and yet they still endure, 

Old are the flowers, yet never fail the spring : 

Why is the song that is so old so new, 

Known and yet strange each sweet small shape and hue ? 

How may a poet thus for ever sing, 

Thus build his climbing music sweet and sure, 

As builds in stars and flowers the Eternal mind ? 

Ah, Poet, that is yours to seek and find ! 

Yea, yours that magisterial skill whereby 

God put all Heaven in a woman's eye, 

Nature's own mighty and mysterious art 

That knows to pack the whole within the part : 

The shell that hums the music of the sea, 

The little word big with Eternity, 

The cosmic rhythm in microcosmic things — 

One song the lark and one the planet sings, 

One kind heart beating warm in bird and tree — 

To hear it beat, who knew so well as he ? 

Virgil of prose ! far distant is the day 
When at the mention of your heartfelt name 
Shall shake the head, and men, oblivious, say ; 
"We know him not, this master, nor his fame.' , 
Not for so swift f orgetfulness you wrought, 
Day upon day, with rapt fastidious pen, 
Turning, like precious stones, with anxious thought, 
This word and that again and yet again, 
Seeking to match its meaning with the world ; 
Nor to the morning stars gave ears attent, 

47 



That you, indeed, might ever dare to be 
With other praise than immortality 
Unworthily content. 

Not while a boy still whistles on the earth, 

Not while a single human heart beats true, 

Not while Love lasts, and Honour, and the Brave, 

Has earth a grave, 

well-beloved, for you ! 

— Richard Le Gallienne 



48 



SCOTLAND'S LAMENT 

Her hands about her brows are pressed, 
She goes upon her knees to pray, 

Her head is bowed upon her breast, 
And oh, she's sairly failed the day! 

Her breast is old, it will not rise, 
Her tearless sobs in anguish choke, 

God put His finger on her eyes, 
And then it was her tears that spoke. 

"I've ha 'en o' brawer sons a flow. 

My Walter mair renown could win, 
And he that followed at the plough, 

But Louis was my Benjamin ! 

"Ye sons wha do your little best, 
Ye writing Scots, put by the pen, 

He's deid, the ane abune the rest, 
I winna look at write again ! 

* ' It 's sune the leave their childhood drap, 
I 've ill to ken them, gaen sae grey, 

But aye he climbed intil my lap, 
Or pu'd my coats to mak me play. 

' ' He egged me on wi ' mirth and prank, 
We hangit gowans on a string, 

We made the doakens walk the plank, 
We mairit snails withoot the ring. 

" 'I'm auld,' I pant, 'sic ploys to mak, 
To games your mither shouldna stoup. ' 



49 



'You're gey an' auld,' he cries me back, 
1 That 's for I like to gar you loup ! ' 

"0' thae bit ploys he made sic books, 
A' mithers cam to watch us playing ; 

I feigned no to heed their looks, 

But fine I kent what they was saying ! 

1 'At times I lent him for a game 

To north and south and east and west, 

But no for lang, he sune cam hame, 
For here it was he played the best. 

"And when he had to cross the sea, 
He wouldna lat his een grow dim, 

He bravely dree 'd his weird for me, 
I tried to do the same for him. 

"Ahint his face his pain was sair, 
Ahint hers grat his waefu' mither; 

We kent that we should meet nae mair, 
The ane saw easy thro ' the ither. 

1 ' For lang I 've watched wi ' trem 'ling lip, 
But Louis ne 'er sin syne I 've seen, 

The greedy island keept its grip, 
The cauldriff oceans rolled atween. 

"He's deid, the ane abune the rest, 
Oh, wae, the mither left alane ! 

He 's deid, the ane I loo 'ed the best, 
Oh, mayna I hae back my nain ! ' ' 

Her breast is old, it will not rise, 
Her tearless sobs in anguish choke, 

50 



God put His finger on her eyes, 
It was her tears alone that spoke. 

Now out the lights went stime by stime, 
The towns crept closer round the kirk, 

Now all the firths were smoored in rime, 
Lost winds went wailing thro ' the mirk. 

A star that shot across the night 

Struck fire on Pala's mourning head, 

And left for aye a steadfast light, 

By which the mother guards her dead. 

1 ' The lad was mine ! ' ' Erect she stands, 
No more by vain regrets oppress 't, 

Once more her eyes are clear ; her hands 
Are proudly crossed upon her breast. 
— James Matthew Barrie 



51 



HOME FROM THE HILL 

Some is the sailor, liome from sea, 

And the hunter home from the hill. — E. L. S. 

Let the weary body lie 

Where he chose its grave, 
'Neath the wide and starry sky, 

By the Southern wave ; 
While the island holds her trust 

And the hill keeps faith, 
Through the watches that divide 

The long night of death. 

But the spirit, free from thrall, 

Now goes forth of these 
To its birthright, and inherits 

Other lands and seas : 
We shall find him when we seek him 

In an older home, — 
By the hills and streams of childhood 

'Tis his weird to roam. 

In the fields and woods we hear him 

Laugh and sing and sigh ; 
Or where by the Northern breakers 

Sea-birds troop and cry ; 
Or where over lonely moorlands 

Winter winds fly fleet ; 
Or by sunny graves he hearkens 

Voices low and sweet. 

We have lost him, we have found him : 

Mother, he was fain 
Nimbly to retrace his footsteps ; 



52 



Take his life again 
To the breast that first had warmed it, 

To the tried and true, — 
He has come, our well beloved, 

Scotland, back to you ! 

— W. EOBERTSON NlCOLL 



53 



I. M. 

R. L. S. 

(1850-1894) 

0, Time and Change, they range and range 

From sunshine round to thunder ! — 
They glance and go as the great winds blow, 

And the best of our dreams drive under : 
For Time and Change estrange, estrange — 

And, now they have looked and seen us, 
0, we that were dear we are ail-too near 

With the thick of the world between us. 

0, Death and Time, they chime and chime 

Like bells at sunset falling ! — 
They end the song, they right the wrong. 

They set the echoes calling : 
For Death and Time bring on the prime 

Of God 's own chosen weather, 
And we lie in the peace of the Great Release 

As once in the grass together. 

— William Ernest Henley 



54 



R. L. S., IN MEMORIAM 

An elfin wight as e 'er from f aeryland 

Came to us straight with favour in his eyes, 
Of wondrous seed that led him to the prize 

Of fancy, with the magic rod in hand. 

Ah, there in faeryland we saw him stand, 

As for a while he walked with smiles and sighs, 
Amongst us, finding still the gem that buys 

Delight and joy at genius's command. 

And now thy place is empty : fare thee well ; 
Thou livest still in hearts that owe thee more 
Than gold can reckon ; for thy richer store 

Is of the good that with us aye must dwell. 

Farewell ; sleep sound on Vaea 's windy shrine, 
While round the songsters join their songs to thine. 

— A. C. E. 



55 



VALEDICTION (E. L. S. 1894) 

When from the vista of the Book I shrink, 
From lauded pens that earn ignoble wage 
Begetting nothing joyous, nothing sage, 

Nor keep with Shakespeare 's use one golden link ; 

When heavily my sanguine spirits sink 
To read too plain on each impostor page 
Only of kings the broken lineage, 

Well for my peace if then on thee I think, 

Louis : our priest of letters and our knight 
With whose familiar baldric hope is girt, 

From whose young hands she hears the grail away 
All glad, all great ! Truer because thou wert 

I am and must be, and in thy known light 

Go down to dust, content with this my day. 

Louise Imogen Guiney 



56 



FOR R. L. S. ON VAEA TOP 

Days are drooping, thought is dumb, 
Crept into a cave ; 
Winter terrors thickly come 
On the haunted wave : 
Light and delight have left 
What in their stead, 
Since the muses kneel about the bravely fallen head ? 

Black and deadly clouds o'errush 
All our heaven in him : 
Power in many a boreal flush, 
Play of starry whim. 
Ere the king reed is cut, 
Ere the full strain, 
Lo, the fickle faun is gone ; the woods are bare again. 

Who are truant to the North 
Chiding, can restore? 
Which of cities, leaning forth, 
Touch him as before ? 
Where serried Cant effrays 
Art, as of old, 
Nevermore aloft that loved oriflamme of gold. 

Would he might indeed delay 
While the onset lowers, 
Would he had not borne away 
Ardour his and ours. 
song upon the march 
Elsewhither blown! 
The battle-dread is on us now, riding afield alone. 

Wisdom, in the motley dressed, 
Wholesome as sunshine, 

57 



Poesy, that from her breast 
Strews the bay divine, 
These in no natal earth 
Fold him ; exiled 
With the wilder, gentler, he so gentle and so wild. 

Aye asunder from his own 
Though Samoa keep 
One uplifted to her throne 
Of pellucid sleep, 
Winds that across the world 
Ride the sea-swell, 
Sign him with the tears of home, the chrism of farewell. 

Was it menace from the dark, 
Was it body's fret, 
Early taught a patient barque 
Cruises sadder yet ? 
Or but some primal urge 
Greatly obeyed, 
Drew to the unfriended hearts the heart of mercy made ? 

Where from water's blue outpost 
Lonely Beauty calls, 
Calls, and down the glowing coast 
Felt denial falls ; 
Where tern above the cloud 
Trooping, have heard 
From the Prince of Welcomes by, no glad saluting word ; 

Where the slanted glens unbar 
Boldly to the gale, 
And aromas, loosed afar, 
Kiss the trader 's sail ; 
Where over lava-fire 
Dances the vine, 
For a symbol perfected, thy sepulchre and shrine ! 

58 



Memory like a rainbow stair 
Painted on the morn, 
Dearest name that on that prayer 
Christianly is borne, 
Soon to romance exhaled, 
Linger and live : 
Meed no purer unto man the childlike men can give. 

Still the islands good to seek 
Rule in wonted mode ; 
Let their bright surf -belted peak 
Still be thine abode ! 
Grief of the loyal race 
Time shall retrieve, 
And all in airy legendry thy shining spirit weave. 

To the bathers ' wonder, oft 
As the night is nigh, 
And to babes beneath the soft 
Wings of lullaby 
(While we of dull unfaith, 
Thrall to our sighs, 
Dual dream to quicken thee and us may not devise), 

There on summer's holy hills 
In illumined calms, 
Smile of TUSITALA thrills 
Thro' a thousand palms; 
There in rapture breaks 
Dawn on the seas, 
When TUSITALA from his shoon unbinds the Pleiades. 

— Louise Imogen Guiney 



59 



IN MEMORIAM STEVENSON 

Life's Angel shining sat in his high place 
To view the lands and waters of his globe ; 

A leaning Shape came through the fields of Space 
Stealthy, and touched the hem of his white robe. 

The Angel turned : Brother, what ill brings thee 
Like thieving night to trespass on my day? 

Yonder, Death answered him, I cannot see ; 
Yonder I take this star to light my way. 

— Owen Wister 



60 



TO ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 

O sailor, sailing the Unfathomed Sea, 

What wind now speeds thee, and what star's thy guide? 

And what adventure worth thy bravery 

Calls with the lifting tide ? 

For thee the new coasts, gleaming, gleaming still, 
For us the hope, the plunge, the engulfing night. 
Oh, land ! and set thy beacon on the Hill, 
Our pilot into Light ! 

— Bruce Porter 



61 



A GRAVE IN SAMOA 

The wild birds strangely call, 
And silent dawns and purple eves are here, 
Where Southern stars upon his grave look down, 

Calm-eyed and wondrous clear! 

No strife his resting mars ! 
And yet we deem far off from tropic steeps 
His spirit cleaves the pathway of the storm, 

Where dark Tantallon keeps. 

For still in plaintive woe, 
By haunting mem 'ry of his yearning led, 
The wave-worn Mother of the misty strand 

Mourns for his absent dead : 

Ah ! bear him gently home, 
To where Dunedin 's streets are quaint and gray, 
And ruddy lights across the steaming rains 

Shine soft at close of day ! 

— John Macfarlane 



TO ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 

There is naught that is new, saith the Preacher ; 

Death is old, 

Love is cold, 
And the hate of the gods for the creature 

Waxes dull as the aeons unfold. 

Who shall find a new gem in the shingle, 

Tempest driven, 

Storm riven, 
Where the foams of the centuries mingle 

And the seekers of jetsam have striven ? 

He alone of the searchers, he only, 

In the rift, 

Of the drift, 
With torn hands, uncompanioned and lonely, 

Could the pearls from the nothingness sift. 

finder of infinite treasure ! 

For the spoil 

Of thy moil, 
Is it grateful, the respite of leisure 

That comes with the surcease of toil ? 

At rest are the tireless fingers 

Which for us 

From the dross 
Picked the marvelous beauty that lingers 

But to tell us anew of our loss. 

Sleep well in thy ocean bound island ! 
Sleep and rest 
Clothe thy breast. 

63 



Blow gently, thou gale of the Highland, 
Sigh softly, thou Wind of the West. 

Weep low o 'er the bier of thy master, 

Salt breeze 

Of the seas, 
With the sound of thy sport or disaster, 

Disturb not his limitless ease. 

God hath granted thy guerdon, my brother, 

And the head 

Cold and dead, 
Bears the mystical crown and none other, 

And the bays on thy coffin are spread. 

And the tears and the prayers of a planet, 

That start 

Erom the heart, 
Keach over the distance and span it 

From us to the land where thou art. 
— Herman Knickerbocker Viele 



64 



A SAMOAN LAMENT 

Groan and weep, my heart in its sorrow ! 

Alas for Tusitala, who rests in the forest ! 

Aimlessly we wait, and sorrowing ; will he again return ? 

Lament, Vailima ! Waiting and ever waiting ! 

Let us search and ask of the captains of ships, 

"Be not angry, but has not Tusitala come?" 

Grieve, my heart ! I cannot bear to look on 

All the chiefs who are assembling. 

Alas, Tusitala, thou art not here ! 

I look hither and thither, in vain, for thee. 

— (Native) 



65 



A SEAMARK 

A THRENODY FOR ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 

Cold, the dull cold ! What ails the sun, 
And takes the heart out of the day? 

What makes the morning look so mean, 
The common so forlorn and gray? 

The wintry city's granite heart 

Beats on in iron mockery, 
And like the roaming mountain rains, 

I hear the thresh of feet go by. 

It is the lonely human surf 

Surging through alleys chill with grime, 
The muttering churning ceaseless floe 

Adrift out of the North of time. 

Fades, it all fades ! I only see 
The poster with its reds and blues, 

Bidding the heart stand still to take 
Its desolating stab of news. 

That intimate and magic name : 

"Dead in Samoa" . . . Cry your cries, 
city of the golden dome, 

Under the gray Atlantic skies ! 

But I have wander-biddings now. 

Far down the latitudes of sun, 
An island mountain of the sea, 

Piercing the green and rosy zone, 

Goes up into the wondrous day. 
And there the brown-limbed island men 
66 



Are bearing up for burial, 

Within the sun's departing ken, 

The master of the roving kind. 

And there where time will set no mark 
For his irrevocable rest, 

Under the spacious melting dark, 

With all the nomad tented stars 

About him, they have laid him down 

Above the crumbling of the sea, 
Beyond the turmoil of renown. 

O all you hearts about the world 
In whom the truant gypsy blood, 

Under the frost of this pale time, 
Sleeps like the daring sap and flood 

That dream of April and reprieve ! 

You whom the haunted vision drives, 
Incredulous of home and ease, 

Perfection 's lovers all your lives ! 

You whom the wander-spirit loves 
To lead by some forgotten clue 

Forever vanishing beyond 
Horizon brinks forever new ; 

The road, unmarked, ordained, whereby 
Your brothers of the field and air 

Before you, faithful blind and glad, 
Emerged from chaos pair by pair ; 

The road whereby you too must come, 
In the unvexed and fabled years, 

67 



Into the country of your dream, 

With all your knowledge in arrears ! 

You who can never quite forget 

Your glimpse of Beauty as she passed, 

The well-head where her knee was pressed, 
The dew wherein her foot was cast ; 

you who bid the paint and clay 
Be glorious when you are dead, 

And fit the plangent words in rhyme 
Where the dark secret lurks unsaid ; 

You brethren of the light-heart guild, 

The mystic fellowcraft of joy, 
Who tarry for the news of truth, 

And listen for some vast ahoy 

Blown in from sea, who crowd the wharves 
With eager eyes that wait the ship 

Whose foreign tongue may fill the world 
With wondrous tales from lip to lip ; 

Our restless loved adventurer, 
On secret orders come to him, 

Has slipped his cable, cleared the reef, 
And melted on the white sea-rim. 

granite hills, go down in blue ! 

And like green clouds in opal calms, 
You anchored islands of the main, 

Float up your loom of feathery palms ! 

For deep within your dales, where lies 
A valiant earthling stark and dumb, 

68 



This savage undiscerning heart 
Is with the silent chiefs who come 

To mourn their kind and bear him gifts, — 
Who kiss his hand, and take his place, 

This last night he receives his friends, 
The journey- wonder on his face. 

He "was not born for age." Ah no, 

For everlasting youth is his ! 
Part of the lyric of the earth 

With spring and leaf and blade he is. 

'T will nevermore be April now 
But there will lurk a thought of him 

At the street corners, gay with flowers 
From rainy valleys purple-dim. 

chiefs, you do not mourn alone ! 

In that Stern North where mystery broods, 
Our mother grief has many sons 

Bred in those iron solitudes. 

It does not help them, to have laid 
Their coil of lightning under seas ; 

They are as impotent as you 

To mend the loosened wrists and knees. 

And yet how many a harvest night, 
When the great luminous meteors flare 

Along the trenches of the dusk, 

The men who dwell beneath the Bear, 

Seeing those vagrants of the sky 

Float through the deep beyond their hark, 

69 



Like Arabs through the wastes of air, — 
A flash, a dream, from dark to dark, — 

Must feel the solemn large surmise : 
By a dim vast and perilous way 

We sweep through undetermined time, 
Illumining this quench of clay, 

A moment staunched, then forth again. 

Ah, not alone you climb the steep 
To set your loving burden down 

Against the mighty knees of sleep. 

With you we hold the sombre faith 

Where creeds are sown like rain at sea ; 

And leave the loveliest child of earth 
To slumber where he longed to be. 

His fathers lit the dangerous coast 
To steer the daring merchant home ; 

His courage lights the darkling port 
Where every sea- worn sail must come. 

And since he was the type of all 

That strain in us which still must fare, 

The fleeting migrant of a day, 

Heart-high, outbound for otherwhere, 

Now therefore, where the passing ships 
Hang on the edges of the noon, 

And Northern liners trail their smoke 
Across the rising yellow moon, 

Bound for his home, with shuddering screw 
That beats its strength out into speed, 

70 



Until the pacing watch descries 
On the sea-line a scarlet seed 

Smoulder and kindle and set fire 
To the dark selvedge of the night, 

The deep blue tapestry of stars, 
Then sheet the dome in pearly light, 

There in perpetual tides of day, 

Where men may praise him and deplore, 
The place of his lone grave shall be 

A seamark set forevermore, 

High on a peak adrift with mist, 
And round whose bases, far beneath 

The snow-white wheeling tropic birds, 
The emerald dragon breaks his teeth. 

— Bliss Carman 



71 



ON BEING ASKED FOR A SONG 

CONCERNING THE DEDICATION OF A MOUNTAIN IN SAMOA TO THE 
MEMORY OP STEVENSON 

A Letter to I. 0. S. 

But, friend of mine, — and his, — I am afraid ! 

How can I make a song 

When the true song is made ! 

For this you say : 

Because that Tusitala loved the birds, 

They who named Tusitala (weaver of charmed words — 

Teller of Tales) 

Have given this mountain to the birds forever ! 

There all day long 

Bright-plumaged island-birds make gay the dales, 

From off the sea the swift white bosun over the mountain sails, 

From many a large-leaved tree 

The gray dove cooes its low, insistent song. 

They shall be absent never — 

To show what love can be from man to man. 

Lovers of Birds and Poets — this is glory ! 

It is a poem, — that which these Chiefs have done, — 

In memory of him, the only one. 

And yet our Tusitala could have sung again the pretty story — 

Alas, none other can ! 

— Richard Watson Gilder 



72 



IN MEMORIAM 

R. L. STEVENSON 

The 'birds come and cry there, and twitter in the chimney, 
But I go for ever and come again no more. 

Mourn for the dead, departed 

With unreturning feet ; 
The bright, the hero-hearted 

No comrade more shall greet ; 
Mourn him whom shadows cover, 

Unstricken by the years ; 
Mourn, Scotland, for thy lover, 

Nor stint his meed of tears. 

"Waft, winds ! our wailing 

Beyond the twilight verge ; 
In sorrow unavailing 

Chant o 'er his grave your dirge ! 
Alack ! The wand is broken, 

And mute the tragic tongue, 
Ere half the words were spoken, 

Or half the song was sung. 

Oh, fair may be his pillow 

'Mid waters of the West, 
And blue the shining billow 

Round the haven of his rest ! 
But ah! the rugged mountains 

And the tempests of the north 
Were dearer than the fountains 

Of the land that drew him forth. 

How soft had been his sleeping 

Beneath his country's sod, 
Within the quiet keeping 

Of the acre green of God, 

73 



With the daisied turf for cover 
Where the drowsy shadows lie, 

And the throstle singing over, 
And the ash against the sky, 

But though in vain his yearning 

For the land he shall not greet, 
And though no Spring, returning, 

Shall tempt his tarrying feet, 
Though few shall weep above him, 

Or wander by his shore, 
Here in the hearts that love him, 

His home is evermore. 

— Margaret Armour 



74 



AT THE ROAD-HOUSE : IN MEMORY OF ROBERT 
LOUIS STEVENSON 

You hearken, fellows ? Turned aside 
Into the road-house of the past ! 
The prince of vagabonds is gone 
To house among his peers at last. 

The stainless gallant gentleman, 
So glad of life, he gave no trace, 
No hint he even once beheld 
The spectre peering in his face ; 

But gay and modest held the road, 
Nor feared the Shadow of the Dust ; 
And saw the whole world rich with joy, 
As every valiant f arer must. 

I think that old and vasty inn 
Will have a welcome guest to-night, 
When Chaucer, breaking off some tale 
That fills his hearers with delight, 

Shall lift up his demure brown eyes 
To bid the stranger in ; and all 
Will turn to greet the one on whom 
The crystal lot was last to fall. 

Keats of the more than mortal tongue 
Will take grave Milton by the sleeve 
To meet their kin, whose woven words 
Had elfish music in the weave. 

Dear Lamb and excellent Montaigne, 
Sterne and the credible Defoe, 

75 



Borrow, De Quincey, the great Dean, 
The sturdy leisurist Thoreau; 

The furtive soul whose dark romance, 
By ghostly door and haunted stair, 
Explored the dusty human heart 
And the forgotten garrets there ; 

The moralist it could not spoil, 

To hold an empire in his hands ; 

Sir Walter, and the brood who sprang 

From Homer through a hundred lands, 

Singers of songs on all men 's lips, 
Tellers of tales in all men's ears, 
Movers of hearts that still must beat 
To sorrows feigned and fabled tears ; 

Horace and Omar, doubting still 
What mystery lurks beyond the seen, 
Yet blithe and reassured before 
That fine unvexed Virgilian mien ; 

These will companion him to-night, 
Beyond this iron wintry gloom, 
When Shakespeare and Cervantes bid 
The great joy-masters give him room. 

No alien there in speech or mood, 
He will pass in, one traveller more ; 
And portly Ben will smile to see 
The velvet jacket at the door. 

— Bliss Carman 



76 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 

Dear Friend, all love that love unanswered may 
I gave to thee, — my spirit leapt to thine. 
Lured by the spell of many a magic line, 

I joined thy fellowship and sailed away 

To golden isles, where rarest treasures lay. 
With thee, all night, I lay among the pine, 
'Mid dews and perfumes in the fresh starshine, 

Till darkness moved and thrilled with coming day. 

And now thou liest lone on Vaea 's height, 
The visions on thine eyes we may not know. 

I think of thee, awake, with keen delight, 
Hearing the forests wave, the grasses grow, 
The rush of spectral breakers far below, 

Through all the starry splendour of the night ! 

— Frederic Smith 



77 



ON A YOUTHFUL PORTRAIT OF ROBERT LOUIS 
STEVENSON 

A face of youth mature ; a mouth of tender, 

Sad, human sympathy, yet something stoic 
In clasp of lips : wide eyes of calmest splendour, 

And brow serenely ample and heroic ; — 
The features — all — lit with a soul ideal . . . 

visionary boy ! what were you seeing, 
What hearing, as you stood thus midst the real 

Ere yet one master-work of yours had being? 

Is it a foolish fancy that we humour — 

Investing daringly with life and spirit 
This youthful portrait of you ere one rumour 

Of your great future spoke that men might hear it ? — 
Is it a fancy, or your first of glories, 

That you were listening, and the camera drew you 
Hearing the voices of your untold stories 

And all your lovely poems calling to you f 

— James Whitcomb Riley 



78 



THE WORD OF THE WATER 

FOR THE UNVEILING OF THE STEVENSON FOUNTAIN IN 
SAN FRANCISCO 

God made me simple from the first, 
And good to quench your body's thirst. 
Think you He has no ministers 
To glad that wayworn soul of yours ? 

Here by the thronging Golden Gate 
For thousands and for you I wait, 
Seeing adventurous sails unfurled 
For the four corners of the world. 

Here passed one day, nor came again, 
A prince among the tribes of men. 
(For man, like me, is from his birth 
A vagabond upon the earth.) 

Be thankful, friend, as you pass on, 
And pray for Louis Stevenson, 
That by whatever trail he fare 
He be refreshed in God 's great care ! 
— Bliss Carman 



79 



THE LAST PORTRAIT IN STEVENSON'S GALLERY 

St. Ives is a character who will ~be treasured up in the memory along 
with David Balfour and Alan Breck, even with D'Artagnan and the 
Musketeers. — London Times. 

The tale is told : the story ends, 
The last of those attractive friends, 
Friends whose companionship we owe 

To that lost master of romance 
With whom we fought against the foe 

Or staked the desperate chance : 

Since first we tasted the delights 
Of Florizel's adventurous nights, 
Or paced the "Hispaniola's" deck 

And wished John Silver far away, 
Or roamed the moors with Alan Breck, 

Or supped with Ballantrae. 

Now bold St. Ives admittance craves 
Among these fascinating knaves ; 
With him from prison walls we leap, 

With him our hearts to wrath are stirred, 
With him we tremble, laugh, and weep, 

Until the final word. 

The story ends : the tale is told, 

And though new books new friends may hold, 

Though Meredithians we may meet, 

Or Wessex lads with Wessex wives, 
That portrait gallery is complete 

In which we place St. Ives. 



80 



THE ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON MEMORIAL IN 
PORTSMOUTH SQUARE 

' ' The smelting pot of the races, ' ' 

You called our city of old, 
As we looked out through the Golden Gate 

Toward the Far East, tinged with gold. 

From the South Seas came her cargoes, 
From Europe, and India's strand, 

While men from all the nations 
Flocked to the new-found land. 

But the shrine of all our memories, 

Of the city that is no more, 
Is a golden galleon sailing 

Toward a distant, dreamy shore. 

'Tis your golden ship of fancy, 
With those Christmas words below, 

Bearing all the love for human kind 
That a heart like yours could know. 

— Fred Warner Carpenter 



81 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 

Across Time 's chart to lure man on, still rolls Life 's sounding 

sea — 
Its billows rushing mountain high — its wild winds blowing 

free; 
All ports are thine, dear mariner — though others name thee 

dead, 
I sight thy pennants flying, and I know thy sails are spread. 

— Emma Carleton 



82 



(INSCRIPTION) 

" Robert Louis Stevenson lived in this house in the summer 

of 1868. 

'Not one quick beat of your warm heart 
Nor thought that came to you apart ; 
Pleasure nor pity, love nor pain, 
Nor sorrow has gone by in vain. ' ' ' 



h:\ 



STEVENSON OF THE LETTERS 

Long, hatchet face, black hair, and haunting gaze, 

That follows, as you move about the room, 
Ah ! that is he who trod the darkening ways, 

And plucked the flowers upon the edge of doom. 

The bright, sweet-scented flowers that star the road 
To death 's dim dwelling, others heed them not, 

"With sad eyes fixed upon that drear abode, 
Weeping, and wailing their unhappy lot. 

But he went laughing down the shadowed way, 
The boy's heart leaping still within his breast, 

Weaving his garlands when his mood was gay, 
Mocking his sorrows with a solemn jest. 

The high gods gave him wine to drink ; a cup 

Of strong desire, of knowledge, and of pain ; 
He set it to his lips and drank it up 

Smiling, then turned unto his flowers again. 

These are the flowers of that immortal strain, 

Which, when the hand that plucked them drops and dies, 
Still keep their radiant beauty free from stain, 

And breathe their fragrance through the centuries. 

— B. Paul Neuman 



84 



"TUSITALA" 

(R. L. S.) 

Teller of Tales from the passionless North, 
True mate of the manifold brotherhood, 

Swept by the winds and the drift and the surge, 
Borne in on hearts that you understood, 

Strong was your breath with the cry of the sea, 
Rife was your thought with the strife on the shore ; 

Quick was your maid with her love for her love, 
Skilful your hand in the craft of your lore. 

We know the tale of the hot, choking blood, 
We see the shadow — the scroll on the wall ; 

We read the rhyme of the thorn in the rose, 
We greet the courage unflinching through all. 

Stop 't though your lips with the dust of our hills, 
Hark to the Wind-god astir on the wold ; 

* ' Talof a lee ! " x and the crags answer back, 

"His spirit still lives in the tales that he told." 

— P. T.M. 



i "Love to you Chief." A Samoan's greeting. 

85 



TO STEVENSON 

Free from my plodding mind, 

Hugging myself for glee, 
Sometimes I ran with the wind, 

And sometimes he ran with me. 
' ' Straight away from the start," called he, 

''We'll keep the pace together!" 
He chuckled, whirling my soul away 

Into the shining weather. 

Out in the silver air 

The laughter of waters rang : 
The broad blue heaven was bare, 

The cheerful forest sang, 
And in my heart upsprang 

Most blissful questioning — whether 
Your soul ran with mine and the wind's 

Into the jolly weather? 

Meseems I heard you say 

' ' 'Tis the tune to travel to, 
1 Over the hills and far away, ' 

With never an end in view. ' ' 
Surely the wind and I and you 

Are vagabonds together, 
On the road that leads both night and day 

Into the friendly weather. 

— Grace W. Hazard 



86 



A TOAST TO TUSITALA 

Eight men sat at the board, 
From the West and the East they came ; 
And many and light were the toasts that night 
Till someone named a name. 

1 ' To Eobert Louis ! ' ' Then all 

Stood np with a single mind; 

And sober and brave was the toast they gave 

The prince of the roving kind. 

' ' Silent and standing ! ' ' Ay, 

For the East and the West are one, 

And the loving man has the world for his clan, 

When all is said and done. 

— Bliss Carman 



87 



TO ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 

Dear ghost, — whose ruddy presence needs must fling 
A ray of cheer among thy brother shades 
In your pale land of Sleep, — thy legacy 
The years make richer. 

For the fellowship 
Of gallant souls who move down stirring ways 
Of blithe adventure ; for the moods of dream 
That blossomed, at the conjuring call of Art, 
Into Life 's festal flowers of Romance ; 
For lyric interludes of Song, whose sound 
Comes in pathetic cadences ; for words 
Apt, rare, and full of wisdom, touching deeps 
On deeps of human passion : for such gifts 
Surely the guerdon is love 's long renown. 

But most, Comrade ours, we owe to thee 
For that brave gospel thou didst ever bring — 
Not pulpit-wise, but sweet as speech of birds : 
Courage and kindliness and joy-of-life 
Even in its motley and keen-edged with pain ; 
High spirit against evil, and the laugh 
Unbitter ; and that indomitable belief 
In brotherhood. 'Twould shame us, looking on 
Thy struggle and thy triumph, should we play 
The craven ; yea, thy present happy peace 
Heartens all laggards. 

Therefore seems it meet 
To hail thee hero, fondly to recall 
Thy valiant days, thy victory over doom, — 
Child of delight and heir of loveliness, 
Great friend, whose followers would fain be true. 

— Richard Burton 



88 



STEVENSON'S BIRTHDAY 

' ' How I should like a birthday ! ' ' said the child, 
1 ' I have so few, and they so far apart. ' ' 

She spoke to Stevenson — the Master smiled — 
"Mine is to-day; I would with all my heart 

That it were yours ; too many years have I ! 

Too swift they come, and all too swiftly fly. ' ' 

So by a formal deed he there conveyed 
All right and title in his natal day, 
To have and hold, to sell or give away, — 

Then signed, and gave it to the little maid. 

Joyful, yet fearing to believe too much, 

She took the deed, but scarcely dared unfold. 

Ah, liberal Genius ! at whose potent touch 

All common things shine with transmuted gold ! 

A day of Stevenson's will prove to be 

Not part of Time, but Immortality. 

— Katherine Miller 



89 



R. L. S. : IN MEMORIAM 

These to his memory. May the age arriving, 

As ours recall 
That bravest heart, that gay and gallant striving, 

That laurelled pall ! 

Blithe and rare spirit ! We who later linger, 

By bleaker seas, 
Sigh for the touch of the Magician's finger, 

His golden keys! 

— Austin Dobson 



90 



R. L. STEVENSON 

With boyish shouts he cries out for the sea, 

With manhood's might he makes a clear-cut way, 
With womanly winning grace he lights the day, 

And round his feet we cluster breathlessly. 

— Charles P. Nettleton 



[)l 



STEVENSON-NICHOLSON 

In winter I sat up all night 

To think of grewsome things to write ; 

In summer, quite the other way, 

I plucked some garden verse each day. 

And does it not seem strange to you 
That Nicholson this picture drew? 
For though I'm dead, I am not half 
So dead as dear old Beggarstaff. 

— C. DE FORNARO 



92 



AT THE STEVENSON FOUNTAIN 

(OLD PORTSMOUTH SQUARE, SAN FRANCISCO ) 

Perhaps from out the thousands passing by — 
The city's hopeless lotos-eaters these, 
Blown from the four winds of the Seven Seas 

For common want to common company — 

Perhaps some one may lift a heavy eye 

And smile with freshening memories when he sees 
Those golden pennons bellying in the breeze 

And spread for ports where fair adventures lie. 

And oh, that such a one might stay a space 
And taste of sympathy till to his ears 

Might come a tale of him who knew the grace 
To suffer sweetly through the bitter years, 

To catch the smiles concealed in Fortune 's face 
And draw contentment from a cup of tears ! 

— Wallace Irwin 



93 



TO R. L. S. 

Buried on the crest of Vaea Mountain, Samoa, December 4, 1894. 

Where the mist-spirits float their pennons gray 

On Vaea's gusty mountain crest, is he 

Keeping the bivouac of eternity 
Pavilioned like a god. Day after day 
He listens to the epic winds that stray 

Vagrant around the world ; and birds that flee 

Across the vasty reaches of the sea 
Sing him the saga of their weary way. 

Teller of tales, dear, venturous, yearning heart, 
Magician, rest upon your peak, apart 

From beaten paths and smoke and cities ' towers, 
And dream new dreams, unbroken save only when 
The child-like, reverent, dark-skinned island men 

Pant up the steep cliff, laden with tropic flowers. 
— Charles W. Collins 



94 



TO R. L. S. 

Written after reading, a second time, the posthumous fragment 
Weir of Hermiston. " 

I never saw you, never grasped your hand, 

Nor wrote nor read lines absence loves to trace, 
Ne'er with you sate in your accustomed place, 

Nor waited for your coming on sea or land. 

But this I know, if along unseen strand, 
Or anywhere in God's eternal space, 
You heard my voice, or I beheld your face, 

That we should greet and both would understand. 

So, till that hour, wherever you abide, 

On circling star or interstellar sea, 

Or where, from man 's imagination free, 
There moves no planet and there sounds no tide, 
Welcome, as though from friend long known and tried, 

This gift of loving fellowship from me. 

— Alfred Austin 



95 



THE BURIAL OF ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
AT SAMOA 

Where shall we lay you down to rest? 
Where will you sleep the very best? 
Mirthful and tender, dear and true — 
Where shall we find a grave for you? 

They thought of a spirit brave as light, 
And they bore him up to a lonely height, 
And they laid him there, where he loved to be, 
On a mountain gazing o 'er the sea. 

They thought of a soul aflood with song, 
And they buried him where, the summer long, 
Myriad birds his requiem sing, 
And the echoing woods about him ring. 

They thought of a love that life redeems, 

Of a heart the home of perfect dreams, 

And they left him there, where the worlds aspire 

In the sunrise glow and the sunset fire ! 

— Florence Earle Coates 



96 



ON A PORTRAIT OF "R. L. S." THE INVALID 

Was't this poor dun, thin, sombre, tattered bird 
Once made so merry down Earth's every dale? 

Not by his coat, then, but the songs we heard, 
Let us remember now the Nightingale ! 

— Arthur Stringer 



97 



TO STEVENSON 

Wanderer o 'er life 's inhospitable seas, 
With galleon sails to waft thee unto lands 
Of old romance, where jocund fancy stands, 
Luring sad hearts of youth, where tropic trees 
Rustle before the trade-wind's welcome breeze, 
And warm blue waves roll up on coral strands, 
Or, on the reef, with clapping of white hands ; 
Teller of tales the world afar to please, 
Thy caravel sailed forth o'er chartless waves, 
But ere it left, a mighty far-off cry 

Reached o'er the sea, — the tardy world's acclaim 
Hail and farewell to him who fearless braves 
The unresisting deep with spirit high, 

Bequeathing kindliness, more prized than fame. 

— Charles Keeleb 



98 



TUSITALA: TELLER OF TALES 

Dweller in many lands, he sought the heights 

And laid him down to sleep 
Under the stars that, through the tropic nights, 

Burn in the purple deep. 

There the first splendors of the dawning day 

Break o 'er the sea 's blue rim ; 
There the last glories of the sunset stay, 

As though they shone for him. 

The white surf, far below, leaps high in air, 

The winds the palm-trees shake, 
The silvery rains sweep by — he is not there ; 

They call : he will not wake. 

— Mary H. Krout 



99 



STEVENSON 

His lyric soul like some sweet seraph came 

And burned with lustrous glamour for a while, 
Then pitifully paled and passed : the guile 

Of crafty art could neither chill nor tame 

His glad alluring fancy, and his name 

Hints of rare tales that bring the tear or smile, 
Wrought with the fluency of magic style 

And with the splendour of the oriflame : 

I read his books as one may read the skies 
That show protean forms and colours blent 
By some transfiguring and translating chance, 

And then I seem to look on life with eyes 
Grown large and lucent, full of bland assent 
To all the wands and wonders of romance. 

Whether upon some strange isle of the sea, 
Where eager daring seeks its treasure-trove, 
Or in some placid and umbrageous cove 
Where ships lie safe when bitter winds blow free, 
And where wild birds may whistle all their glee 
Through the cool shadows of a southern grove ; 
Whether in deep gray glooms where phantoms rove, 
And at some harsh intruding footstep flee, — 
He guides us with the genius of the gnome, 
That laughs at common mortals who can know 
Nothing of fairy loves and subtle flights : 
And thus we wander with him through the gloam 
Of haunted summers or where starshines flow 
Through spectral cloisters in Arabian nights. 
— George Edgar Montgomery 



100 



R. L. S. 

Within the circle of the Fabled Sea, 

Where golden galleons once ploughed their way, 
He dwelt in exile ; here with Princely sway 
He ruled a realm of brave Romance, which he 
Begat with wizard pen. 'Twas not to be 
Again to roam his Scottish moorlands gray, 
Nor wear the garlands won till close of day ; 
Yet, to the end, he smiled at Fate 's decree, 
And, smiling, drew new magic from the West 

To charm the stranger's ear. Now memory hath 
Communion aye with him where he was guest 
In many a star-girt Isle, until the path 

He trode, with manly patience yet with pain, 
Reminds us how his exile was our gain. 

— Arthur Johnstone 



101 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 

In his old gusty garden of the North, 
He heard lark-time the uplifting Voices call ; 
Smitten through with Voices was the evenf all — 
At last they drove him forth. 

Now there were two rang silverly and long ; 
And of Romance, that spirit of the sun, 
And of Romance, spirit of youth, was one ; 
And one was that of Song. 

Gold-belted sailors, bristling buccaneers, 
The flashing soldier, and the high, slim dame, 
These were the Shapes that all around him came, — 
That we let go with tears. 

His was the unstinted English of the Scot, 
Clear, nimble, with the scriptural tang of Knox 
Thrust through it like the far, strict scent of box, 
To keep it unforgot. 

No frugal Realist, but quick to laugh, 

To see appealing things in all he knew, 

He plucked the sun-sweet corn his fathers grew, 

And would have naught of chaff. 

David and Keats, and all good singing men, 
Take to your hearts this Covenanter's son, 
Gone in mid-years, leaving our years undone, 
Where you do sing again ! 

— Lizette Wood worth Reese 



102 



THOUGHT OF STEVENSON 

High and alone I stood on Calton Hill 
Above the scene that was so dear to him, 
Whose exile dreams of it made exile dim. 

October wooed the folded valleys till 

In mist they blurred, even as our eyes upfill 
Under a too-sweet memory ; spires did swim, 
And gables rust-red, on the grey sea 's brim — 

But on these heights the air was soft and still. 

Yet not all still : an alien breeze will turn 
Here, as from bournes in aromatic seas, 
As round old shrines a new-freed soul might yearn 
With incense of rich earthly reveries. 

Vanish the isles : Mist, exile, searching pain, 
But the brave soul is free, is home again ! 

— Arthur Upson 



103 



LEGEND OF PORTSMOUTH SQUARE 

Oh, the little bronze ship at the anchor chain tugs 

And the light on the bright sails gleams, 

In the moonshine and mist it is headed southwest 

For a cruise on the sea of dreams. 

All deserted the anchorage place in the square, 

There are none who may look at it now ; 

With a brave off-shore wind that is warning behind 

It is churning the foam with its prow. 

With a queer phantom crew it is off on the blue, 

And the blocks in the rigging ring, 

When the wraith voices rise to the tropical skies 

And this is the song that they sing : 

"Fifteen men on a dead man's chest, 

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum ! 

Drink and the devil had done with the rest, 

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum ! ' ' 

There is Morgan, and Merry, and savage Long John 

With his crutch, on the little bronze ship, 

And old Smollett, the Skipper, is shaking his head, 

As he thinks of that other trip ; 

And the oracle parrot, the sage Captain Flint, 

Still is chatt 'ring of bloodshed and wreck. 

With his big dreamy eyes staring up at the skies, 

See, the master is pacing the deck. 

There are doubloons and loot, there is battle to boot, 

Ere they ever return to their port ; 

With a rhythmical swing now the crew 's voices ring 

In a song of a gruesome sort : 

"Fifteen men on a dead man's chest, 

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum ! 

104 



Drink and the devil had done with the rest, 
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum ! ' ' 

Oh, the little bronze ship has returned to its place 

To the stone by the poplar trees, 

And the little bronze sails though they gleam in the sun 

Will not answer the morning breeze. 

Now the ghost song has died on the pale phantom lips, 

And gone are the mast and the men, 

And the little bronze ship is back safe from the trip 

Till it goes on a cruise again. 

There it lies through the day, till the noise dies away 

And the moonshine is soft on the square : 

Then its queer phantom crew take it out on the blue 

And their chanty rings weird on the air : 

"Fifteen men on a dead man's chest, 

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum ! 

Drink and the devil had done with the rest, 

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum." 

— W. 0. McGeeham 



105 



TOASTS IN A LIBRARY 

I raise my glass (Carthusian brew, 
And pure the emerald shines), 

A sip to thee, my Rabelais — 
The wisest of divines. 

But lest thy genial earthly soul 
Should claim too much of me, 

I turn to him who to the Lark 
Gave his own extacy. 

A subtle drink and delicate 

One owes to Thomas Browne, 
And noble port when Gibbon hands 

Sonorous wisdom down. 

For thee, suave Horace, unperplexed, 
Well-bred, well-nourished man, 

I would unstop an amphora 
Of thy Falernian. 

I name them not (too great to name) 

The choice Hellenic Few, 
I drink in silence piously: 

Then turn I, friend, to you. 1 

0, smiling soul, that craved the sun, 

Yet ample suffering bore, 
This be your praise : "He loved art much, 

But men and nature more. ' ' 

1 r. l. s. 



106 



B. L. S. 

Eest, oh thou restless angel, rest at last, 

High on thy mountain peak that caps the waves ; 
Anguish no more thy delicate soul enslaves, 

Dream-clouds no more thy slumber overcast. 

Adventurous angel, fold thy wings ! The vast 
Pacific forest, with its architraves, 
The stillness of its long liana 'd naves, 

Involves thee in a silence of times past. 

Thou whom we loved, a child of sportive whim, 
So fair to play with, comfort, thrill or chide, 
Art grown as ancient as thine island gods, 
As mystic as the menacing seraphim, 
As grim as priests upon a red hill-side, 

Or lictors shouldering high their sheaves of rods. 

— Edmund Gosse 



107 



PARAPHRASE 

To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive. — B. L. S. 

Better the pilgrim's staff, the cheerful song, 
The distant hills to beckon us along, 
A free highway and the wide sky above, 
The foot to travel and the heart to love, 
Youth 's eager fancies and the morning light, 
Than the high festival of crowning night. 

So long our vision shines, our hopes befriend, 

Better the journey than the journey's end. 

The cozy resting place that shines ahead, 

Is not so blessed as the step we tread. 

Better a mountain streamlet in the sun, 

Than the still pool with all our journeyings done. 

Better the toil and stress, though spent in vain, 
Than the brief joys we labour to obtain. 
The flowers we stop to gather by the way 
Before our journey's end are thrown away, 
But all the joy of search and sight is ours, 
That shall go with us tho ' we lose the flowers. 

Thrice happy he who learns the truth I tell, 
He shall arrive at last, and all be well. 

— Frederic Smith 



108 



R. L. S. 

ON READING ' ' TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY IN THE CEVENNES ' ' 

How sweet the ways when we poor mortals stray 
When, with enlightened eyes unveiled we see 
Earth's wondrous beauty and her mystery! 

Nature revealed, a living thing alway, 

Alert in listening night or bountiful day, 
Moves to our mood with finest sympathy, 
With watchful service sets our spirits free, 

Sings in our joy or weeps our tears away. 

Surely the fault is ours, so long we rest 
Content with darkened vision at the gate, 

When we might stand within, in reverence drest, 
With sense refined, with subtle joy elate, 
In that hushed portal where such wonders wait 

As they may see whom God hath fitly blest ! 

— Frederic Smith 



109 



"TREASURE ISLAND' ' 

Comes little lady, a book in hand, 

A light in her eyes that I understand, 

And her cheeks aglow from the faery breeze 

That sweeps across the uncharted seas. 

She gives me the book, and her word of praise 

A ton of critical thought outweighs : 

"I've finished it, Daddie !" — a sigh thereat. 

1 ' Are there any more books in the world like that ? ' ' 

No, little lady, I grieve to say 
That of all the books in the world today 
There 's not another that 's quite the same 
As this magic book with the magic name. 
Volumes there be that are pure delight, 
Ancient and yellowed or new and bright ; 
But — little and thin, or big and fat — 
There are no more books in the world like that. 

And what, little lady, would I not give 
For the wonderful world in which you live ! 
What have I gathered one-half as true 
As the tales Titania whispers you ? 
Ah, late we learn that the only truth 
"Was that which we found in the Book of Youth. 
Profitless others, and stale, and flat ; — 
There are no more books in the world like that. 
— Bert Leston Taylor 



110 



TREASURE ISLAND 

A lover breeze to the roses pleaded, 

Failed and faltered, took heart and advanced; 
Up over the beaches, unimpeded, 

A great Red Admiral ducked and danced ; 
But the boy with the book saw not, nor heeded, 

Reading entranced — entranced ! 

He read, nor knew that the brown bees bumbled ; 

He woke no whit to the tea bell's touch, 
The drowsy pigeons that wheeled and tumbled, 

(But how should a pirate reck of such?) 
He read, and the flaming flower-beds crumbled 

At the tap of the sea-cook 's crutch ! 

And lo, there leapt for him dolphins running 

The peacock seas of the buccaneer, 
Lean, savage reefs where the seals lay sunning, 

The curve of canvas, the creak of gear ; 
For ever the Master's wondrous cunning 

Lent him of wizard lear ! 

But lost are the flowerful days of leisure, 
Lost with their wide-eyed ten-year-old 

Yet if you'd move to a bygone measure, 
Or shape your heart to an ancient mould, 

Maroons and schooners and buried treasure 
Wrought on a page of gold — 

Then take the book in the dingy binding : 
Still the shadows come, bearded, great ; 
And swaggering files of sea-thieves winding 

Back, with their ruffling cut-throat gait, 
Reclaim an hour when we first went finding 
Pieces of Eight — of Eight ! 

— Patrick Chalmers 
111 



THE OLD VAQUERO REMEMBERS ROBERT LOUIS 
STEVENSON 

Though I live to the age of eagles, 

And the winds shall blow through me like a net, 

One day from the rest I shall not forget 

Though I live to the age of eagles, 

But remember, and guard more than treasures of gold; 

Though the winds shall blow through me like a net, 

And I am shaken by wind and cold. 

— Reginald Rogers 



112 



AT THE ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON FOUNTAIN 

He was a princely vagabond, 

A restless rover from his birth, 
An alien lodger for the night 

In this old wayside inn of earth. 

A simple-hearted wayfarer, 

With spring and summer in his breast, 

A comrade of the roving foot, 
And fevered of the great unrest, 

Who now hath fared on trails beyond 
The range marked by the cobalt rim 

Of sordid things — beyond the pale 
Of horizons forever dim — 

A nomad, safe at last within 

The world-old harbor gates of time, 

The master, whose blithe feet once strayed 
Among the hills of prose and rhyme. 

To think that once upon a time, 
In ragged luck, he passed this way, 

That his eyes, too, once followed far 
The scudding sails across the Bay ; 

That he, too, saw the plume of smoke 
That marks the outbound steamer's trail, 

That he, too, heard the winches creak, 
And saw the cargoes, bale on bale, 

Fed to the yawning maws of ships — 

The coursers of the seven seas, 
That strain, like hounds, upon the leash, 

Impatient to be down the breeze. 

113 



This ground whereon the fountain plays 
Shall sacred be against the years, 

Shall hallowed be — since he has passed 
To the Valhalla of his peers. 

And here shall be nor East nor West ; 

For all the trails shall blend as one, 
And men shall come from all the world 

To drink to Louis Stevenson. 

— John Northern Hilliard 



114 



LONG JOHN SILVER 

There is no rhyme for you, John, poets say — 

No rhyme for Silver, queer as that may be ; 

And yet, for that you 've been so much to me, 
I'll put you in a sonnet, anyway. 
Ah, what a scoundrel were you in that day 

When buccaneer and pirate sailed the sea ! 

Your hand was ever on your snickersnee, 
Itching to meet somebody it might slay. . . 

Whimsical villain ! Winsome mutineer ! 

Although you've caused my hair to stand erect, 
While reading of your devil 's doings when 
You taught Jim Hawkins what a thing was Fear, 
I love you. . . But may all good saints protect 
Me from the wiles of wooden-legged men ! 

— Vincent Starrett 



115 



TO R. L. S. 

A wandering singer through the realm of dreams, 

He tuned his pipe to Life's brief -voiced song, 
And danced adown a pathway lit with gleams 

Of fortitude and resignation born. 
No comrade spirit knew his staunch heart's pain 

Nor saw his footsteps lag, nor heard a sigh — 
We only knew a sweetness naught could maim, 

As hand in hand with Courage he passed by. 
He breathed upon life's truths with magic, rare, 

Until they took the beauty from his soul, 
Or wrought fact into romance — Oh, so fair ! 

With artistry beyond the common goal. 

So with blessed labor, finding Life 's face grey, 
He smiled, and charmed the haunting hours away. 
— R. R. Greenwood 



116 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 

He sings for youth, the passionate and sad, 

Youth that despairs and triumphs and is blind ; 

And ever through the singing, clean and glad, 
The keen cool moorland runs, and the north wind. 

A starkness and a fierceness and a pride 

That still defies the night, and with caught breath 

Cries hope — tho louder, not to be denied, 
The sullen trumpets of the court of death 

Peal through the page with strong, insistent surge 

And ever is the blackness tenanted : 
Somewhere far off, a song rings like a dirge, 

And a veiled King stands by the poet's head. 
— Ethel Talbot Scheffauer 



117 



TO ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 

How often have I sat beneath thy spell, 
O Sorcerer, who feared nor death nor hell ! 
But, like thine own bird "singing in the rain," 
Thy voice comes true and clear above thy pain. 
wanderer, whose lips made no complaint ! 
Brave exile, fighting on, though weak and faint ; 
No notes of coward fear you ever sang ; 
Your tones with vibrant hope and courage rang. 
And we, who read thy messages today, 
Gather fresh strength to pass upon our way. 
Sleep on, sweet soul, beneath the Southern Cross; 
Ours is the gain, Samoa's is the loss! 

— Edwin Carlile Litsey 



118 



FRIEND 0' MINE 

When first I met you, you were dead, while I 
Had scarce begun to live. And where we met 

Was on some far-blown island where the shores 
Upon an opal sea, reef -clutched, were set. 

You were a man while I was yet a boy ; 

But, friend o' mine, were we not boys together? 
Had we not jeered the gales at Stornaway 

And made the Sound o ' Mull in stormy weather ? 

Did we not watch the seagull dare the foam, 
Dip to the wave, fleck it and scream its scorn ? 

Did we not say : ' ' There goes a sailor 's wraith ! 
Where was he drowned? I'll wager off the Horn." 

In boyish dreams did we not often view 

The sea-hewn cave as where a baresark leered — 

Long-haired and gaunt and foaming at the mouth, 
Grinding his teeth till blood ran down his beard ? 

Did we not tread the snowbound wilderness, 
Bearing in turn our common sorrow's pack? 

Did we not hear the grinding mills of God 
And make that bitter camp by Saranac ? 

Did we not watch the South Sea palms at dusk? 

By morn, at sea, the flying-fish at play? 
Did we not swear again that we were friends 

As from our sheering copper burst the spray? 

And had we not a circle of strange friends, — 

Rough seasman, polished prince and tattered tramp ? 

Ah, in those days what stirring tales were passed 
By galley fire, peat hearth and gypsy camp ! 

119 



Ay, we were boys together — comrades still 

In the glamorous hours of dusk that (you know !) lend 

Fine dreams to finer fellows — There 's my hand, 
Mine own, familiar friend ! 

— Stephen Chalmers 



120 



THE DEATH OF FLINT 

(Said tlie fellow with the bandage: ". . . Dear heart, but he 
died bad, did Flint. ' ' — Treasure Island.) 

Of the seven that day as sailed away 

To bury the pirate's hoard, 
With a godless grin on his blue-black chin 

Just Flint returned aboard. 
His cock-eye twitched and luffed askew 

As he croaked by the cabin door : 
14 'T will go under the sod with me, b' God! 

Then I'll beat up Hell for more!" 

Oh, well I remember how hard he died, 

That night on Savannah coast ; 
How he shot three men and took Billy Bones 

For an honest trader's ghost. 
We darsn't go near, but we heard him sing, 

An' the bottles go smash and crash, 
As he fought wi' the devils as clung to his throat, 

An' cursed 'em for lubber trash! 

He fought an' he fumed, an' he cursed an' he swore, 

An ' raved o 'er his buried pile, 
Singin', "Fifteen men on the dead man's chest," 

An' a-soakin' up rum the while. 
An' he yo-ho-ho'd, an' he stabbed the air, 

An' he strangled the tangled bed, 
An ' he cracked the wall wi ' a blow o ' his fist, 

An' laughed — his laugh — and was dead ! 

He was blue wi ' the rum that had fouled his hawse — 

( Oh, an ugly devil was Flint ! ) 
We could hardly believe as he 'd come to port, 

For his eye had the same old squint. 
When we laid him out snug in the hole we dug, 

121 



We was feared he would open his jaw, 
An ' sit up an ' yell : ' ' Flint dead ? To Hell ! 
Fetch aft the rum, M'GrawV 

But come ! Are ye scared? He's a grinnin' stiff, 

Deep-buried Savannah way. 
Will ye show yer starn to a boozy ghost, 

When Flint don 't walk — by day. 
I saw him dead wi' these 'ere headlights, 

I shovelled in some o' the sod. 
It was these 'ere hands as closed his eyes — 

Though they wouldn 't stay shut, b ' God ! 

But we weighted 'em down with gold doubloons 

(He'd always an eye for gold) ; 
An' we tied up his jaw with an old, red sash, 

When sartain sure he was cold ; 
While the green parrot squawked around his face, 

An' pecked at his cold, blue lips, 
Cryin ', ' ' Pieces of eight ! ' ' But Flint was gone 

To beat up phantom ships ! 

— Stephen Chalmers 



122 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 

Out of the land of the ancient bards 

A wandering minstrel strayed; 
Courage and hope were the song he sang, 

And faith was the string he played. 
1 ' I care not what the end, ' ' he cried, 

1 ' So the road be fair and free ; 
For the greater gift of life is his 

Who travels cheerily ! ' ' 

Earth was his house and heaven his roof ; 

Sun, moon, and stars his light ; 
Voices of wind and wood and wave 

His music day and night. 
Over his clouds the lark sang still ; 

And when the light was gone, 
Thrilling the dark of crouching doom, 

His nightingale sang on. 

So let us be, as the minstrel sang, 

Of faith, and hope, and love, 
Though the snarling waters scowl beneath, 

And thunder rolls above. 
After the rain, the night of stars ; 

After the night, the dawn ; 
And that day goes down to a splendid death, 

Which lights another 's morn ! 

— Stephen Chalmers 



123 



SAINT R. L. S. 

Sultry and brazen was the August day 
"When Sister Stanislaus went down to see 
The little boy with the tuberculous knee. 

And as she thought to find him, so he lay : 
Still staring, through the dizzy waves of heat, 
At the tall tenement across the street. 

But did he see the dreary picture ? Nay ! 
In his mind's eye a sunlit harbor showed, 
Where a tall pirate ship at anchor rode. 

Yes, he was full ten thousand miles away ! 
The Sister, when she turned his pillow over, 
Kissed ''Treasure Island" on its well-worn cover. 
— Sarah N. Cleghorn 



124 



ON CEETAIN CRITICS OF STEVENSON 

They call him "little master/' parrot-wise, 
And praise his "style" with patronizing air; 
Find evidence of genius, "here and there" — 

The smug, damned critics with their alibis. 

Glutting the journals with their hackneyed drone ; 
Like moths attracted to the candle 's flame, 
Seeking reflected lustre from his name 

They impudently write below, their own. 

Standing beneath a sprig of mistletoe, 
Self -hung, and subtly labeled "R. L. S." 
They smirk, and coyly wait the blind caress 

Of Tribute's indiscriminate overflow. . . 
But the great master, from his thronging shrine, 
Reveals no favour, manifests no sign. 

— Vincent Starrett 



125 



SAMOA AND R. L. S. 

What if the bones of Stevenson 

(As in the sight of an ancient Seer) 
Gathered themselves, and soon had won 

Flesh and muscle and tailors ' gear ! 
What if Stevenson, thus arisen, 

Out of the glooms of death came back, 
Finding Samoa his German prison 

Rapturous under the Union Jack ! 

Wouldn't he hold his honest head 

High and proud in the golden days ? 
Wouldn't he love the man who said, 

' ' Here is the flag and here it stays ! ' ' 
Wouldn't he write a wonderful tale 

Celebrating the sudden fight 
After the Anzac's headlong sail? 

Stevenson — who is dead to-night. 
— Jesse Edgar Middleton 



126 



THE TRAVELLERS 

Favored am I with guests of fame 
Who pass not with the passing year, 

But still return to the ingle's glow 
Or the lamp's embracing cheer. 

And first of these the jester quaint, 

Old Shandy of the Satyr smile 
And dropping tear that pardon claims 

For his page of honeyed guile. 

The good man craves an hour of ease 

To spin the tale that lives for aye ; 
Tho' I mislike the parson's leer, 

To Trim and Toby who '11 say nay ? 

Now Yorick fades, and comes a knock 

That sets my pulses beating wild, 
For lo ! there stands within the door 

The Muses' unforgotten child. 

Ah, Heine ! haste not on your way, 

Strange wreaths of pain the Gods intend you 
Unwounded yet by Love and Fame, 

Stay, while the golden years befriend you ! 

He weaves his weird of song and speech 
That thrills the list 'ning soul with wonder ; 

Then swift departs — as tho' he heard 
On Brocken's height the thunder. 

Deepens the night. I trim the lamp 
That often burns till dawning gray; 

When sudden from the outer dark 
There rings a challenge bold and gay. 

127 



Enters he like a prince, of right 

(Not one to palter or to sue he !) 
And all my best of love I lay 

At the feet of Robert Louis. 

Dashing and free and picturesque, 
No wind of time has chilled him yet : 

In art our darling mousquetaire — 
Romance and a cigarette ! 

After such guests who shall have leave 
To win our grace with song and story ? — 

Yes, one that now belated comes, 
With no small meed of glory. 

Richard ! I would be young to-night : 
Your philter quick ! — without demur he 

Begins the spell, while magic airs 
Blow to us out of Surrey. 

I join with him th' eternal chase 

Thro' peopled ways and sylvan places, 

While Beauty ever flies before — 

Yet oft looks back with luring graces. 

Ah ! seeker of the Golden Girl, 

What pranks you played me in that dream ! — 
Methought a fortune fair was mine 

At the Inn of the Singing Stream. 

— Michael Monahan 



128 



A HOUSE IN SARANAC 

There stands a house in Saranac 

Beside a shady way, 
That knew the tread of Stevenson 

In his little day, 

And down its friendly corridors 
That gave him joy to see, 

The ready laugh of Stevenson 
Sounded merrily. 

Though now his lonely bed is made 

Upon a far-off hill, 
The memory of Stevenson 

Dwells in it still ; 

And so because He loved the man 
Who roses gleaned from rue, 

God guards the house of Stevenson 
The long years through. 

— George Steele Seymour 



129 



THE PASSING OF LOUIS 

He didn't wait for his laurel wreath; 

He didn't stay for the long applause. 
Someone called from a distant heath, 

And he slipped away from the House of Shaws. 
I think they met him along the road, 
And led the way to his new abode. 

Perhaps a group of the roving kin, 
Smiling a welcome, strangely sweet, 

Were waiting there when the ship came in, 
And cheered, and hoisted him off his feet. 

Perhaps they carried him shoulder-high 

Who had journeyed "over the sea to Skye." 

Somewhere along the highway then, 
The rest would tarry until he came — 

At the Friendly Inn of the Joyous Men, 
With its ringing glasses and hearth aflame. 

Yes, that was it ! It was just that way : 

I think I must have been there, that day. 

Ah, what a racket there must have been 
When he pushed open the swinging doors ; 

What a burst of jovial, boisterous din, 
With steins on tables and heels on floors 

Beating and kicking away like mad ! — 

That was a way those fellows had. 

And there they sat who had gone before : 
Sir Walter loomed at the head, I think ; 

And Fielding's thunder and Jonson's roar 
Probably made the goblets clink. 

The Reverend Laurence may have smiled, 

But I fancy his eyes were a trifle wild. . . 

130 



But vagabond Borrow uprose full proud 
And trolled a song of the road, I guess. 

No doubt the chorus was somewhat loud — 
There was none to cavil, and many to bless. 

And Stevenson's eyes were bright with tears, 

For this was the judgment of his peers. 

I like to think of that lusty crew 

Rollicking there like happy boys ; 
Singing the songs that gay dogs do, 

Scaring the Landlord with their noise — 
And Master Will, with a hearty smack, 
Slapping Louis upon the back. 

And somewhere, too, in the haze of smoke, 

A little fellow, with eyes alert, 
Chuckles, as at a gorgeous joke, 

And weeps a little, as if it hurt. . . 
"With a smile and a tear waits Alan Breck 
To hang an arm on his master's neck. 

— Vincent Starrett 



131 



ADVENTURING WITH R. L. S. 

Treasure Island — dim and dark 
In the dim blue distance — hark, 
A call ! And see — a sail ! 
Pirates ? Nay, too fragile-pale 
The dear captain of our bark. 

Pale, yet smiling — Come, embark ! 
There, beyond those poplars stark, 
Beckons, past the gleaming trail, 
Treasure Island! 

What care we for hall and park, 
Castled splendors, cities? — Mark, 
How like silver-shimmering mail 
Stir the poplars — like a veil 
Lift the dimness and the dark — 
Treasure Island! 

— Ethel Feuerlicht 



132 



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

For permission to reproduce the poems in this volume, grate- 
ful acknowledgments are extended to Charles Scribner's Sons, 
New York, for permission to use Stevenson's poem, "Over the 
Sea to Skye ; ' ' to The Bobbs-Merrill Company, Indianapolis, 
for permission to use James Whitcomb Riley's "To Robert 
Louis Stevenson on His First Visit to America," and "On a 
Youthful Portrait of Robert Louis Stevenson," both copy- 
righted by that company; to The Century Magazine, for 
"Stevenson's ' Underwoods ', " by Edith M. Thomas, and Dr. 
Burton's "Robert Louis Stevenson"; to Young E. Allison, 
Louisville, Xy., for permission to use his ballad, "Derelict"; 
to The John Lane Co., New York, for William Watson's 
"Written in a Copy of Mr. Stevenson's 'Catriona'," Edmund 
Gosse's "To Tusitala in Vailima," and "R. L. S.," John 
Davidson's "Robert Louis Stevenson," Dr. Garnett's sonnet 
of the same title, Mr. Le Gallienne 's "Robert Louis Steven- 
son, An Elegy," and Mr. Dobson's "R. L. S., In Memoriam"; 
to Owen Wister, Philadelphia, for his poem, "In Memoriam 
Stevenson"; to Houghton, Mifflin Company, Boston, for Rich- 
ard Watson Gilder 's "On Being Asked For a Song " ; to Paul 
Elder & Co., San Francisco, for Mr. Carpenter's "The Robert 
Louis Stevenson Memorial"; to The Independent, for Mrs. 
Conkling's "To Stevenson"; to Bert Leston Taylor, Chicago, 
for his poem, "Treasure Island"; to Sunset Magazine, for 
Mr. Hilliard's "At the Robert Louis Stevenson Fountain"; to 
The Overland Monthly, for Mr. Greenwood's "To R. L. S."; 
to The Book News Monthly, for "Robert Louis Stevenson," 
by Ethel Talbot Scheffauer; to Munsey's Magazine, for Mr. 
Chalmers's "Robert Louis Stevenson"; to the New York 
Times, for "The Death of Flint," and to Mr. Chalmers and 
Houghton, Mifflin Company for "Friend o' Mine" ; to Michael 

133 



Monahan, New Canaan, Conn., for his poem, "The Travel- 
lers"; to Small, Maynard & Co., Boston, and Bliss Carman, 
for the latter 's poems, "A Seamark," "At the Road House," 
"A Toast to Tusitala," and "The Word of the Water"; to 
The Bookman, for Mt. Stringer's "On a Portrait of 'R. L. S.' 
the Invalid"; to Thomas B. Mosher, Portland, Me., and the 
author, for Miss Reese's "Robert Louis Stevenson"; and 
to any and all writers and publishers whose productions have 
been here reprinted without express permission, begging that 
they will forgive the freedom for the sake of "R. L. S." 
While every effort has been made to secure permission to re- 
print, in all cases where by any chance such permission seemed 
requisite, or was possible to obtain, there may have been over- 
sights. These will be gladly corrected, if pointed out, in any 
future edition of the book. Sarah N. Cleghorn's "Saint 
R. L. S. " is reprinted, by permission of the publishers, from 
Portraits and Protests, Henry Holt and Company, New York ; 
' ' Samoa and R. L. S. " is reprinted from Sea Dogs and Men at 
Arms, by Jesse E. Middleton, by courtesy of G. P. Putnam's 
Sons ; " To Robert Louis Stevenson, ' ' by Alfred Austin, copy- 
right, 1902, is reprinted through the courtesy of Harper & 
Bros., New York. The "Ballad of John Silver" is reprinted 
by permission of the publishers, The Macmillan Company, 
from John Masefield's Salt Water Poems and Ballads. 

In addition to the above acknowledgments, I wish especially 
to thank my friends, Dr. A. J. Marks of Toledo, O., and Mr. 
J. Christian Bay of Chicago, for invaluable assistance in bring- 
ing together the numerous Stevenson tributes herein contained, 
and Mrs. Luther S. Livingston of Cambridge, Mass., for a sim- 
ilar kindness. 

It is the intention of the editor to continue to collect verse-tributes to 
Bobert Louis Stevenson, looking toward an enlarged edition of this 
anthology at some future date. Poets, or persons having in their posses- 
sion poems not included in the present volume, are invited to send addi- 
tional items to Vincent Starrett, 5611 West Lake Street, Chicago, III. 

134 



NOTES 

More or less reference is made hereinafter to "Hammerton." The 
book referred to is Stevensoniana, edited by J. A. Hammerton, Lon- 
don, 1903; revised and enlarged edition, Edinburgh, 1910 — a mine of 
information for Stevenson enthusiasts. 



Apparition (W. E. Henley) — This well-known sonnet commemorates 
Stevenson's first visit to Henley, "in hospital," in February, 1875. It 
has been reprinted ad nauseam, since its first appearance in print, in 
A Boole of Verses, 1888. 

"Kidnapped" (?) — From Punch (London), August 7, 1886. This 
appreciative jingle was one of a series of rhymed book reviews appearing 
weekly in Punch at that time. The general title of the department was 
1 ' Paper-Knife Poems, ' ' with the additional line, ' ' By Our Special Book- 
Marker. ' ' 

To Robert Louis Stevenson (R. B. Wilson) — From The Critic 
(N. Y.), September 17, 1887. In Hammerton. 

To Robert Louis Stevenson on His First Visit to America (J. W. 
Riley) — Dated by its author "September 1887"; printed in the New 
York World, December 11, 1887. First collected in Home Folks, 
1900; also in The Lockerbie Book, 1911, and Complete Works, 
1913. In a note to this poem, in the latter, the editor, Edmund H. Eitel, 
Riley's nephew and biographer, says: "Mr. Riley found Stevenson's 
works particularly congenial reading." 

To R. L. S. (W. E. Henley) — From A Book of Verses, 1888. It will 
be noted that, despite its "memorial" tone, this poem was written in 
Stevenson's lifetime. R. L. S. died in 1894. 

Stevenson's "Underwoods" (E. M. Thomas) — From The Century 
Magazine, April, 1888. 

Derelict (Y. E. Allison) — Three stanzas of this vigorous chanty were 
written in 1891, and set to music by Henry Waller. The piece then was 
entitled "A Piratical Ballad"; it was published by Wm. A. Pond & Co., 
N. Y. Over the next six years, Mr. Allison revised and corrected and 
added, at various times, and the song was completed as now generally 

135 



known about 1897, although a few word changes have been made since. 
It has been reprinted many times; once, in 1901, by The Rubric, Chicago, 
with illustrations by J. C. Johansen. In 1914, the poem, the story of its 
adventures, and much delightful gossip of its author, appeared in a 
privately printed brochure, now extremely rare, written and published by 
Champion I. Hitchcock. The inception of "The Dead Men's Song," 
as it also has been called, was Allison's desire to round out to a satis- 
factory conclusion the four lines introduced by Stevenson into Treasure 
Island, The fifth verse usually is set in italics, as intended by the 
author, as a delicate intimation that the theme of a woman was foreign 
to the main idea, which he attempted to carry out as he believed Steven- 
son might have done. The present version contains its author's final 
revisions. 

A Ballad of John Silver (J. Masefield) — From Salt Water Ballads, 
first published 1892-3; reprinted with additions, 1913. 

To Prospero in Samoa (Y. Y.) — From The Bookman, May, 1892. 
In Hammerton. 

To Eobert Louis Stevensfn (A. Lang) — Dedication of The Secret 
Commonwealth of Elves, Fauns, and Fairies, by Robert Kirk, edited by 
Lang, London, 1893. Collected in Ban and Arriere Ban, 1894. 

Ballant o' Ballantrae (A. Lang) — From Ban and Arr.iere Ban, 
1894. Probably written some little time previous to this publication. It 
is likely that Stevenson saw it in manuscript. 

Written in a Copy of Mr. Stevenson's "Catriona" (W. Wat- 
son) — From Odes and Other Poems, 1894. Possibly earlier than this 
date would suggest; "Catriona" was published in 1893. In Hammerton. 

To Tusitala in Vailima (E. Gosse) — This poem, dated "September 
1894 ' ' by its author, reached Stevenson at Vailima three days before his 
death. It was the last piece of poetry read by him, and was the subject 
of the last letter he wrote on the last day of his life. The verses were 
read by Lloyd Osbourne at the funeral. First printed in In Russet and 
Green, 1894, of which volume it was the dedication; reprinted in Ham- 
merton, and elsewhere. 

Greeting (F. J. Cox) — First printed in The Weekly Sun (evidently 
a London journal), November 11, 1894. The poem was sent by its author 
to Stevenson, at Vailima, but R. L. S. died before it could reach him. 
Reprinted in Japp's Robert Louis Stevenson: a Record, an Estimate, and 
a Memorial, 1905. 

R. L. S. (A. E. Housman) — From The Academy, December 22, 1894. 

Robert Louis Stevenson (J. Davidson) — From The Illustrated Lon- 
don News, December 22, 1894; reprinted in The Critic (N. Y.), Vol. 26. 

136 



Robert Louis Stevenson (E. Garnett) — From The Illustrated Lon- 
don News, December 22, 1894; reprinted in The Critic (N. Y.), Vol. 26. 
It was reprinted and altered in The Queen and Other Poems, 1901. The 
present version is the revised one. The original version, which appears 
in Hammerton, is as follows: 

Wondrous as though a star with twofold light 

Should -fill her lamp for either hemisphere, 

Piercing cold skies with scintillation clear, 
And glowing on the sultry southern night; 
Was miracle of him who could unite 

Pine and the purple harbour of the deer 

With palm-plumed islets tliat sequestered hear 
The far-off wave their zoning coral smite. 

Still roars the surf, still hounds the wave, but where 

Is one to see, and hear, and tell again? 
As dancers pause on an arrested air 

Fail the fast-thronging figures of the bram; 
And shapes unshapely huddle in dim lair, 

Awaiting ripe vitality in vain. 

Robert Loins Stevenson: an Elegy (R. LeGallienne) — First print- 
ed in The Daily Chronicle (London), December 25, 1894; reprinted in 
The Birmingham Gazette, December 26, 1894, and probably in other 
journals. Collected in Robert Louis Stevenson: An Elegy, and Other 
Poems Mainly Personal, 1895. 

Scotland's Lament (J. M. Barrie) — From The Bookman, January, 
1895; reprinted in McClure's Magazine, February, 1895. 

Home From the Hill (W. R. Nicoll) — From Blackwood's Maga- 
zine, February, 1895. The "text" is from Stevenson's famous 
"Requiem." In Hammerton. 

I. M., R. L. S. (W. E. Henley) —Dated "February 1891' ' in all edi- 
tions of Henley's poems that I have seen. Did Henley write his me- 
morial in advance of the subject's death? Or was it written originally 
for another occasion? I find no specific mention of the poem in any of 
the books I have consulted. From Poems, 1898. 

R. L. S., In Memoriam (A. C. R.) — The date of this sonnet does 
not appear. It may have been first printed in Japp's Robert Louis 
Stevenson (1905), from which it is here taken; but obviously it was 
written shortly after Stevenson's death. 

Valediction (L. I. Guiney) — First printed in The Century Maga- 
zine, March, 1895. Reprinted in Robert Louis Stevenson: A Study by 
A. B., with a Prelude and a Postlude by L. I. G., issued for private dis- 
tribution by Copeland and Day, in May, 1895, in an edition of 250 copies. 
A. B. was Alice Brown. 

137 



For E. L. S. on Vaea Top (L. I. Guiney) — First printed in Bobert 
Louis Stevenson, etc. See above. 

In Memoriam Stevenson (O. Wister) — From The Atlantic Monthly, 
April, 1895. In Hammerton. 

To Egbert Louis Stevenson (B. Porter) — From The Lark, June, 
1895. In Hammerton. 

A Grave in Samoa (J. Macfarlane) — Where this was first printed 
does not appear. I take it from Every Day in the Year, edited by James 
L. and Mary K. Ford, 1914, where the poem stands without date or pub- 
lication credit. An artist signing himself J. Macfarlane illustrated an 
article on the Samoan Islands in Harper's Magazine for September, 
1897, and possibly he is the author of our poem. 

To Eobert Louis Stevenson (H. K. Viele) — From Every Day in the 
Tear; see above. 

A Samoan Lament (Native) — I do not know what the title of this 
song may be, or whether it has a title. Isobel Osbourne Strong, in the 
Century Magazine, November, 1895, says: "There are many songs 
about Tusitala, as Mr. Stevenson was called in the islands — rousing boat 
songs, when the paddles all beat time, and the handles are clicked against 
the sides of the canoe to the rhythm of his name. . . In rowing Mr. 
Stevenson out to meet a passenger ship I have heard the boatmen keep 
time to 'Tusitala ma Aolele' (Aolele is Mrs. Stevenson's native name, 
meaning "Beautiful as a flying cloud"). . . Then there are the danc- 
ing songs about Mr. Stevenson, depicting life at Vailima, which might be 
called topical, as they generally touched upon the small incidents of 
plantation life. These were composed by some servant or workman on 
the place. . . Other songs are long chants, with innumerable verses 
descriptive of Tusitala 's wisdom, his house, his friendship for the natives, 
and his love for Samoa. One of those may be called the 'Song of the 
Eoof -Iron, ' or ' The Meeting of Tusitala and the Men of Vaie 'e. ' . . . 
The most beautiful of the songs are those that were composed in memory 
of Mr. Stevenson, and sung at Vailima after his death. One, referring 
to the steadfast loyalty of Mr. Stevenson to the High Chief of Mataafa, 
through peace and war, victory and defeat, has for its refrain: 

Once Tusitala' s friend, 
Always Tusitala' s friend. 

Another describes a Samoan searching among the white people for one 
as good and kind as Tusitala." The song given here is the only one 
reproduced in a full English translation by Mrs. Strong — and possibly 
this is incomplete. 

A Seamark (B. Carman) — Published separately in 1895, by Copeland 

138 



and Day; reprinted in By the Aurelian Wall and Other Elegies, 1898. 
In Ballads and Lyrics, London, 1902. 

On Being Asked tor a Song (E. W. Gilder) — From The Poems of 
Richard Watson Gilder, 1908. Probably sent to Isobel O. Strong, as in- 
dicated, about 1895. 

In Memorial, E. L. Stevenson (M. Armour) — From The Home 
and Early Haunts of Robert Louis Stevenson, W. H. White & Co., Edin- 
burgh, 1895. The quoted lines used by the author as a text, are the last 
two lines of Stevenson's "Home no more home to me," first printed in 
1889 and collected in Songs of Travel, 1896. 

At the Eo ad-House (B. Carman) — From More Songs From Vaga- 
bondia, 1895. 

Eobert Louis Stevenson (F. Smith) — From A Chest of Viols, 1896, 
privately printed by Sherrat and Hughes, Manchester, England. Mr. 
Smith was an English gentleman of means, a resident of Manchester, and 
the owner of a famous collection of old violins. He died, I am informed, 
"three or four years ago." 

On a Youthful Portrait of Eobert Louis Stevenson (J. W. 
Eiley) — Written about September, 1897, and printed with the portrait 
described, in Scribner's Magazine, December, 1897. Collected in Home 
Folks, 1900. Also in The Lockerbie Book, 1911, and Complete Works, 
1913. Hammerton reprints it, and uses the portrait described as a 
frontispiece to his volume. 

The Word of the Water (B. Carman) — Written in 1897. From By 
the Aurelian Wall, and Other Elegies, 1898. The Stevenson Fountain, 
a granite shaft surmounted by a bronze galleon, was unveiled in Ports- 
mouth Square, San Francisco, October 17, 1897. On its front are the 
words, "To Eemember Eobert Louis Stevenson," and a passage from 
Stevenson's Christmas Sermon. 

The Last Portrait in Stevenson 's Gallery (?) — First printed in 
The St. James Gazette (London) ; reprinted in McClure's Magazine, 
January, 1898. 

The Eobert Louis Stevenson Memorial in Portsmouth Square 
(F. W. Carpenter) — From Verses From Many Lands, Paul Elder & Co., 
San Francisco, no date. 

Eobert Louis Stevenson (E. Carleton) — From The Chap-Book, 
February 15, 1898. 

(Inscription) — From The Criterion, October 21, 1899, where it is 
credited to The Irish Independent. The note states that the inscription 
is on a memorial stone that "has been placed to mark the lodging in 
which Stevenson lived at Anstruther Fife, while assistant engineer at 

139 



Anstruther Harbor. The stone was placed on the west front of Cunzie 
House, or, as Stevenson wrote it, ' Kenzie House, ' by Miss Lorimer, Kellie 
Castle, and a few friends." 

Stevenson of the Letters (B. P. Neuman) — From The Spectator, 
January 27, 1900; reprinted in Littell's Living Age, March 17, 1900. In 
Hammerton. 

"Tusitala" (P. T. M.) — From The Book Buyer, February, 1900, 
where it appeared with the following note: "A subscriber writes that 
she has read Mr. Low's review of Stevenson's Letters with so much 
pleasure that she wishes every reader of The Book Buyer to see a poem 
which she has clipped from ' a daily paper ' — she gives no more definite 
credit. ' ' 

To Stevenson (G. W. Hazard) — From Tlie Independent, August 16, 
1900. Miss Hazard is now well known as Grace Hazard Conkling. 

A Toast to Tusitala (B. Carman) — From Eeedy's Mirror, No- 
vember, 1900. 

To Robert Louis Stevenson (R. Burton) — From The Century Maga- 
zine, December, 1900. 

Stevenson's Birthday (K. Miller) — From An American Anthology, 
edited by Edmund Clarence Stedman, 1900, where it appears without date 
or publication credit. The poem is based on an actual occurrence in the 
early life of Adelaide Ide; Stevenson's letter to the young person, who 
was born on February 29, is famous. The author of the poem is Kath- 
erine (Wise) Miller, daughter of Com. Henry A. Wise, U.S.N., and wife 
of Com. J. W. Miller, U.S.N.R. She was born at Spezia, Italy, 18 — . 

R. L. S. In Memoriam (A. Dobson) — Dedication of the New Cen- 
tury Number of The Student, issued by the Students' Representative 
Council, University of Edinburgh, January, 1901. Reprinted in Littell's 
Living Age, May 25, 1901. Collected in Carmina Votiva and Other Oc- 
casional Verses, printed for private circulation, 1901. In Hammerton, 
and probably elsewhere. 

R. L. Stevenson (C. P. Nettleton) — From The Book-Lover, March- 
April, 1901. 

Stevenson-Nicholson (C. de Fornaro) — From The Critic (N. Y.), 
June, 1901, where it appears with a caricature of Stevenson, ' ' a la Nich- 
olson," by C. de Fornaro, who may have and probably did write the 
verses. 

At the Stevenson Fountain (W. Irwin) — From The Rubric, July, 
1901. 

To R. L. S. (C. W. Collins) — From The Book Buyer, December, 1901. 



140 



To E. L. S. (A. Austin) —From A Tale of True Love and Other 
Poems, 1902. 

The Burial of Robert Louis Stevenson at Samoa (F. E. Coates) — 
From The Boole-Lover, November-December, 1902. 

On a Portrait of "R. L. S. m the Invalid (A Stringer) — From 
The Bookman, June, 1903. 

To Stevenson (C. Keeler) — From the Impressions Quarterly, Decem- 
ber, 1904. 

Tusitala: Teller of Tales (M. H. Krout) — From The Header's 
Magazine, September, 1905. 

R. L. S. (A Johnstone) — From Recollections of Robert Louis Steven- 
son in the Pacific, Chatto & Winclus, London, 1905. 

Stevenson (G. E. Montgomery) — From The Pall Mall Magazine, 
February, 1908. 

Robert Louis Stevenson (L, W. Reese) — From The Mosher Books, 
a catalogue, 1908 ; reprinted in A Quiet Road, Mosher, 1916. 

Thought of Stevenson (A. Upson) — From The Bibelot, March, 
1909. 

Legend of Portsmouth Square ( W. O. McGeeham) — Read at the 
Stevenson Fellowship Banquet in San Francisco, November 13, 1909. 
From Robert Louis Stevenson in California, by Katharine D. Osbourne, 
1911. 

Toasts in a Library (?) — From The Mosher Books, a catalogue, 

1909. The reference to Stevenson begins with the last line of the 
penultimate stanza and continues to the end. 

R. L. S. (E. Gosse) — From Collected Poems, 1911. Written some 
years before, in all probability. 

Paraphrase: To travel hopefully, etc. (F. Smith) — Written in 

1910, and printed here for the first time. 

R. L. S., On Reading Travels With a Donkey (F. Smith) — Written 
about 1910. Printed here for the first time. 

"Treasure Island" (B. L. Taylor) — First printed in The Chicago 
Tribune-, reprinted in A Line-o '-Verse or Two, 1911. 

Treasure Island (P. Chalmers) — First printed in Punch (London) ; 
reprinted in Littell's Living Age, Aug. 5, 1911. Collected in Green Days 
and Blue Days, 1914. 

The Old Vaquero Remembers Robert Louis Stevenson (R„ Rogers) 
— ■ From Lyrics, Songs and Idylls, 1912. 

At the Robert Louis Stevenson Fountain (J. N. Hilliard) — From 
Sunset, November, 1912. 



141 



Long John Silver (V. Starrett) — This sonnet appears here for the 
first time in print. It was written in 1913. 

To E. L. S. (E. E. Greenwood) — From The Overland Monthly, De- 
cember, 1913. 

Eobert Louis Stevenson (E. T. Scheffauer) — From The Boole News 
Monthly, — 1914; reprinted in The Literary Digest, September 19, 1914. 

To Eobert Louis Stevenson (E. C. Litsey) — From Spindrift, Louis- 
ville, Ky., 1915. 

Friend O' Mine (S. Chalmers) — From The Medical Pickwick, Vol. 
I, No. 1, 1915. 

The Death of Flint (S. Chalmers) — First printed in the New 
York Times. 

Eobert Louis Stevenson (S. Chalmers) — From Mimsey's Magazine, 
May, 1916. 

Saint B. L. S. (S. N. Cleghorn) — From Portraits and Protests, 1917. 

On Certain Critics of Stevenson (V. Starrett) — Written in 1917, 
this sonnet is here for the first time printed. 

Samoa and E. L. S. (J. E. Middleton) — From Sea Dogs and Men at 
Arma, 1918. 

The Travellers (M. Monahan) — From the Sun Dial column of the 
New York Evening Sun, August 20, 1919. 

A House in Saranac (G. S. Seymour) — Appears for the first time 
in this volume. Written in 1919. 

The Passing of Louis (V. Starrett) — Written for this volume, 
October 1919, and here first printed. 

Adventuring with E. L. S. (E. Feuerlieht) — Appears here for the 
first time in print. 



142 



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